Poems

Michelle Foshee

CONTENTS

Thank you to my writing teachers at the Hugo House in Seattle, and for the community of writers they support.

https://hugohouse.org/

CONTENTS

A penny for the thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .

Tuesday lunch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .

Safe streets and neighborhood walks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A crater appeared . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To anchor well . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Foxhole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Your numbers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Impact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

05

06

10

12

14

16

19

20

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A penny for the thought

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A penny for the thought

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Was it day or night? / I take night / Time for you to consider / the meeting / the reckoning / I’ll call it the future you chose / No deer for you / Beneath your gentleness I glimpsed iron / like the father who loved you with his cruelty / My choice to see you / the reader of Russian classics / how you sketched the human form in all its frailty / your gift captured the graceful lines of the neck / the curves of the shoulder / the shadows and hollows of the clavicle / Still / I love to put a penny on the tracks / slow rumble leading to rhythmic roar / inevitable contact / I watch holes in the world appear through empty cars / then scramble in the bushes for my crushed copper memento / Now I play in the water with the children / they create and destroy castles / charge headfirst and fearless into the waves / Looming above the beach / the tracks / Around my neck a chain / my fingers find the coin

Tuesday Lunch

I walk past the sequoia as I leave home. 
The children on the corner play in their yard,
throwing balls, their cat, each other. 
They shriek and laugh uproariously. 

Mona putters out back
and we “How-do-you-do?” each other.
I wonder - as always - about the creation story
of her magnificent black walnut tree. 
It’s a late bloomer, now in its canopied glory. 

At the top of the hill, M.C.’s garden grows neat and tidy
from dirt to fecund in a month. 
No surprise that she doesn’t miss her fancy job. 
She’ll need to zucchini bomb soon, for sure. 

I peek into Brian’s place, past the bamboo
that through some hard work and magic
has not yet taken over the neighborhood, 
and nod to Shiva, sitting serene and watchful
at the end of an undulating path. 

A few houses down, I grab one of the painted rocks
a primary colored peacock for Cora. 

She’s shut-in and content,
but sad that she can’t swim this summer. 

An extra 5-minute walk brings me to the fancy store
where I consider the merits 
of a turkey/cranberry sandwich
or an eggplant/hummus wrap. 
My friend’s teenage son works in the deli
- his first job – 
and I ask him to choose for me. 
I turn away as he slips my lunch into a bag. 

As I leave the store, I remember 
the thank you note in my pocket 
and slip it under the mat
at the blue house on Lucile street,
where only last week I grabbed a
“Take me Home” euphorbia plant.  

I detour down Ashworth street because it’s shady,
and I hope to catch a glimpse
of the artist I met only last week. 
He uses found objects
– mostly metal and wood -
and is grieving the loss 
of his wife of 45 years.

All is quiet and still as I duck
into the lane which leads to the park. 
The trees
- like urban street kids -
are wild and communicative here. 
As I leave the path, the empty park awaits me. 
So I claim my favorite bench, 
underneath the silver poplar. 

I open up the brown bag - 
Turkey and cranberry.

Safe Streets and Endless Neighborhood walks

Bamboo spilling ever up and out. Our connection with the wild. A rustling whispering with the wind. 

Under the weight of bamboo, a lone angular archway, so solid and supportive. A gentle here and there divide.

Down low the rock pathway, softened by green finery, meanders and undulates without movement. 

Docile and true, along this pathway I sit. Stone warm, legs crossed, hands gently folded in front of me.

Haunted people stand at the edge of this garden, looking in. Longing and sorrow we acknowledge and cannot own. 

And holding their gaze, together and now, we breathe once, twice, three times. And so it is.