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Marie Kane
Swimming Lessons
I
Her father swims past the frothy turbulence,
his arms evenly pulling—
he returns as heavy water swoops behind.
He climbs out of the ocean,
hair slicked and dark like a seal,
and asks, "Why aren't you wet?
Why are you still on the sand?”
"Just watching, dad," she says.
Up and down the curved beach,
pockets of people dot the blueness,
sailboats gather the wind.
"Come here," he says, and picks her up,
walking through high crests
beyond the tug of the tide
to deep water.
"Now relax," he commands.
When she doesn’t,
he loosens her hands,
releases the strangle hold
of her arms
and holding her over
the opaque blue-green
he lets go.
II
She walks down to the lake
not caring what others think
of her nakedness She places one foot
on small, round stones at the edge,
then steps deeper to shins, to knees, to thighs
as coolness eases over her belly skin,
firm stomach, breasts,
neck and shoulders.
Suddenly submerged in liquid that is clear
to bottom stones, she flings the washed
and obdurate part of herself into the lake—
and sounds her own depth.
Among These Trees
After “Keris Tree Farm”; Oil painting by Marisa Keris
She steadies the horses with their stamping impatience at the lateness
of the hour and closeness of the barn and heaviness of the load
that grows with each bend, grasp, hoist, and toss—
and the wagon settles lower with the arrival of each new log.
She admires the stumps still warm from the blade
and arrayed in curves of concentric color.
She joins her father and grandfather in their wordless cutting
and hauling and revels in the smoothness of sawdust
with its heady scent that almost makes her swoon.
The sky leans on the roof of the farmhouse
and threatens to drop white among these trees.
The cold night deepens and the house beckons
and when her father nods, she turns the horses’ heads
and hopes that the wagon’s wounded logs will reconcile
their girth to the inevitable fate of quick spark
and sustaining flame. She wonders, if the logs could bleed,
would they bleed the colors of the wood itself—
auburn, ochre, cinnamon—and stain all of their hands?
The Sink in the Closet
Open the door, he says, get your coat
and when she does, instead of coats and boots and scarves,
she finds the hanger with the huge cape hulking there,
its color reminiscent of the Civil War, bulky, woolen,
not tender wool of a cashmere scarf, but coarse wool that pricks
and feels alive against your skin—and not the love alive but the angry alive—
raspberry bushes, thorns, poison ivy—against your skin—
she avoids the cape and reaches to grab her coat, and instead she finds a
sink.
The cracked china dishes are stacked, dirty, moldy,
but she cannot finish the job now and when she hears the voice again
telling her to Get moving, she understands that she has
to leave the dirty dishes behind. But the fact is,
she knows what she needs to keep herself going,
so she says, “Wait. I have to finish the dishes.”
Soft, white soap covers her hands, her fingers like roses just bloomed,
pink pearls and white frost fondle each dish
while cold water cascades like glacier melt. She remembers
a February rain that mirrored the sky in ice
and melted weeks later after the snow that fell on top of it
ran away in the almost warmth of March.
The soap glistens and shines in the closet
and the dishes reflect light like snow.
Cold water, icy fresh biting, spills over her,
rinses the soap and her rosebud hands and now she must go—
a grunt from the doorway—Hurry! She grabs the first thing—
the wool cape—and instantly
it bites the flesh of her palm.
Even though it is huge and the collar dwarfs her neck,
engulfs her face and mouth,
she wears it. Muffled she will be—
Buttons, she tries the buttons, but her nimble fingers
fail and he waits by the door, his stubby hand on the brass knob
already turning to the right.
She passes under the arm that holds the dark red door open,
pulls the coat’s heavy hood over her hair.
She is already on the passenger’s side.
The road is already streaming away.
I Take a Walk After Breakfast Without You
In last night’s dream, I stepped through the edge
of rust-colored grass and watched big-winged
birds circle above feathers heaped on the ground
like cotton candy. I awaken to our sparse, brown
room in the Poconos, with its bare light bulb
hanging from the unfinished ceiling,
and its twisted cord snaking through
rafters to the outside
light pole—a refined soldier
saluting sky and adjacent dead pine.
I take a walk after breakfast without you,
past the light pole and the dead pine,
down to the wooden dock where I watch
a pair of barn swallows take wing—
darts in the August sky—
and know that this is our end.
I Imagine Your Hands
Below me, the collapsed garden glows
with the fierce light of almost winter
and the first frost seizes cherry branches
whose coiled leaves have no defense against
this cold. The vast November sky
mounts the moon like a lover
and straddles its stillness; polished clouds
mar the imperviousness of sky.
I imagine your hands over mine—
your palms, their warmth—
fending off the emptiness.
Summer Fetish
The rim of the frosted glass at her lips,
she turns to the heat of the day,
swallows the cold liquid, and at the hot spring
of noon prostrates her body—
arms open, the sun’s Christ. She is transfixed
by the sun’s white glare, the absence
of shadow, and the faint, pleasurable line
of moisture forming between her breasts.
Swimming Lessons
I
Her father swims past the frothy turbulence,
his arms evenly pulling—
he returns as heavy water swoops behind.
He climbs out of the ocean,
hair slicked and dark like a seal,
and asks, "Why aren't you wet?
Why are you still on the sand?”
"Just watching, dad," she says.
Up and down the curved beach,
pockets of people dot the blueness,
sailboats gather the wind.
"Come here," he says, and picks her up,
walking through high crests
beyond the tug of the tide
to deep water.
"Now relax," he commands.
When she doesn’t,
he loosens her hands,
releases the strangle hold
of her arms
and holding her over
the opaque blue-green
he lets go.
II
She walks down to the lake
not caring what others think
of her nakedness She places one foot
on small, round stones at the edge,
then steps deeper to shins, to knees, to thighs
as coolness eases over her belly skin,
firm stomach, breasts,
neck and shoulders.
Suddenly submerged in liquid that is clear
to bottom stones, she flings the washed
and obdurate part of herself into the lake—
and sounds her own depth.
Among These Trees
After “Keris Tree Farm”; Oil painting by Marisa Keris
She steadies the horses with their stamping impatience at the lateness
of the hour and closeness of the barn and heaviness of the load
that grows with each bend, grasp, hoist, and toss—
and the wagon settles lower with the arrival of each new log.
She admires the stumps still warm from the blade
and arrayed in curves of concentric color.
She joins her father and grandfather in their wordless cutting
and hauling and revels in the smoothness of sawdust
with its heady scent that almost makes her swoon.
The sky leans on the roof of the farmhouse
and threatens to drop white among these trees.
The cold night deepens and the house beckons
and when her father nods, she turns the horses’ heads
and hopes that the wagon’s wounded logs will reconcile
their girth to the inevitable fate of quick spark
and sustaining flame. She wonders, if the logs could bleed,
would they bleed the colors of the wood itself—
auburn, ochre, cinnamon—and stain all of their hands?
The Sink in the Closet
Open the door, he says, get your coat
and when she does, instead of coats and boots and scarves,
she finds the hanger with the huge cape hulking there,
its color reminiscent of the Civil War, bulky, woolen,
not tender wool of a cashmere scarf, but coarse wool that pricks
and feels alive against your skin—and not the love alive but the angry alive—
raspberry bushes, thorns, poison ivy—against your skin—
she avoids the cape and reaches to grab her coat, and instead she finds a
sink.
The cracked china dishes are stacked, dirty, moldy,
but she cannot finish the job now and when she hears the voice again
telling her to Get moving, she understands that she has
to leave the dirty dishes behind. But the fact is,
she knows what she needs to keep herself going,
so she says, “Wait. I have to finish the dishes.”
Soft, white soap covers her hands, her fingers like roses just bloomed,
pink pearls and white frost fondle each dish
while cold water cascades like glacier melt. She remembers
a February rain that mirrored the sky in ice
and melted weeks later after the snow that fell on top of it
ran away in the almost warmth of March.
The soap glistens and shines in the closet
and the dishes reflect light like snow.
Cold water, icy fresh biting, spills over her,
rinses the soap and her rosebud hands and now she must go—
a grunt from the doorway—Hurry! She grabs the first thing—
the wool cape—and instantly
it bites the flesh of her palm.
Even though it is huge and the collar dwarfs her neck,
engulfs her face and mouth,
she wears it. Muffled she will be—
Buttons, she tries the buttons, but her nimble fingers
fail and he waits by the door, his stubby hand on the brass knob
already turning to the right.
She passes under the arm that holds the dark red door open,
pulls the coat’s heavy hood over her hair.
She is already on the passenger’s side.
The road is already streaming away.
I Take a Walk After Breakfast Without You
In last night’s dream, I stepped through the edge
of rust-colored grass and watched big-winged
birds circle above feathers heaped on the ground
like cotton candy. I awaken to our sparse, brown
room in the Poconos, with its bare light bulb
hanging from the unfinished ceiling,
and its twisted cord snaking through
rafters to the outside
light pole—a refined soldier
saluting sky and adjacent dead pine.
I take a walk after breakfast without you,
past the light pole and the dead pine,
down to the wooden dock where I watch
a pair of barn swallows take wing—
darts in the August sky—
and know that this is our end.
I Imagine Your Hands
Below me, the collapsed garden glows
with the fierce light of almost winter
and the first frost seizes cherry branches
whose coiled leaves have no defense against
this cold. The vast November sky
mounts the moon like a lover
and straddles its stillness; polished clouds
mar the imperviousness of sky.
I imagine your hands over mine—
your palms, their warmth—
fending off the emptiness.
Summer Fetish
The rim of the frosted glass at her lips,
she turns to the heat of the day,
swallows the cold liquid, and at the hot spring
of noon prostrates her body—
arms open, the sun’s Christ. She is transfixed
by the sun’s white glare, the absence
of shadow, and the faint, pleasurable line
of moisture forming between her breasts.
I have read and written words all of my
life. My first grade teacher scolded my
use of cursive writing, and not block
print, but she taught me how to read
well, my fourth grade teacher praised my
short story writing, and my eleventh
grade teacher challenged me to write—
always—and write with honesty. School
urged me to step out of my shyness; I
did so with my pen. College
publication, and a professor who
critiqued my work with finesse and not a
knife, enabled me to continue. Writing
and marriage, writing and children,
writing and a high school English
teaching job, writing and students who
could write, writing and students who
could not, writing and graduate school,
writing and doubt, writing and a failing
marriage, writing and MS, writing and
remarriage, writing, writing. I have
been so fortunate to be given
encouragement by Dana Gioia, Donald
Murray, and Chris Bursk, my friend and
gifted and inspiring writing teacher.
We know the importance of a writers’
workshop—mine is superb.
Because of my love of the word (and
perhaps kind judges), I was fortunate to
be named the 2006 Bucks County (PA) Poet
Laureate. I have also received a
recognition award for my poetry from the
National Foundation for the Advancement
of the Arts, and an award for teaching
of young writers from The Scholastic Art
and Writing Awards. I recently retired
from Central Bucks School District where
I toiled, and loved, teaching English
for twenty-eight years. For the past
eight years, I have been the chairman of
the James A. Michener Art Museum poetry
contest for students in the Central
Bucks School District. I have had the
pleasure of reading my work at the New
Jersey State Museum, James A. Michener
Art Museum, the International House in
Philadelphia, and at many universities,
bookstores, and libraries. Some of my
writing credits include The River,
Stirring, The Bucks County Writer, U. S.
1 Worksheets, Wordgathering, The Poet’s
Touchstone, Bone and Tissue, and the
Delaware Valley Poets Anthology.
In the fall of 2008 I won second place
in the 2008 Poetry Society of New
Hampshire’s International Contest and
was an Honorable Mention winner in the
Inglis House National Contest in
Philadelphia. At present, I am working
on (i.e. laboring over) a chapbook of
poetry entitled Survivors in the
Garden. Since retiring in 2007, I find
I cannot stay away from scholastic
poetry and have enjoyed being a juror in
regional and national scholastic poetry
contests; I continue to support young
poets as a coach and tutor.
If emotion and senses and reason and
thought were to connect—one four-
cornered spider’s web of poetry—what
honest poems might we whirl in the air
to flicker in the morning sun?
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