Reading Jane Hirshfield, Nine Gates,
Revising poems, lying around gaping
at the sun in a blue sky, high wind
waggling the high branches, squirrels
in the attic, the dishwasher banging
madly downstairs as though it is
hitting a cookie sheet with a ladle
to call us back to the kitchen. Maybe
we have left a burner on and it is
concerned. I'm in the midst of my
alternate life, where I sit on a screen
porch in the evening with other
women writers and we muse about
whatever we feel like and then we
do the dishes and go up to read in
bed, each one alone and fine with
that. We have eaten the last of the
75% dark chocolate and shown
each other our crowns and bridges
and talked of friends with cancer
and friends who have grandchildren
and others who are dying or have
died. Memorial Day, a list of those
I have lost: Grandpa Fred, John
Cline, John Melvin Gamache, my
grandparents and my great grand-
mother, Shawna's friend Beth.
Tomorrow I drive south to Cape Cod
to Eastham to visit Sue and Roy.
This is not and I know it is not
a poem. It is evening and I have
happened upon internet connection
and so am writing on line though it
is evening so all is odd and discom-
bobulated and east coast time. I've
drunk wine, and eaten salmon with
my housemate writer friends, and
now I'll settle into bed with Michael
Pollan's In Defense of Food. I would
rather still be reading Sue Vreeland's
Luncheon of the Boating Party, which
I thoroughly enjoyed but which I
finished reading last night. Sigh.