I cross the street, scanning for traffic.

Half a block down, a cat-sized mound

dots the center line. Two crows argue

above in the trees. Cars zip

between me and the mound,

which ruffles black in tires’ breeze–

One car, two pass. Contemplation

from the ground and above.

Not cat nor crow, but a wig

animated in abandon. We nod,

continue with our ways.

an arcing splatter that dribbles away.

Plans made of smoke

Windows flung open,

cats bake in the sun outside.

The air  around me hums.

Cats run in,

bones in my head vibrate

in circles.

A hummingbird is in the house.

Whirring overhead, beak clicking

into glass, whirring, clicking.

Crouching

I crawl to the door, open it

hoping.

Zipping out, it perches atop the maple next door.

an iodine swab cleans my arm.

Phlebotomists discuss lunch

over my head as my blood drips

into a plastic bag.

“Vietnamese, Chinese, what’s the difference. Soup.”

I chew on a poem Sharon Olds wrote.

I suck and savor, pull the marrow

out of its bone

with my mouth,

Slide her words

over my tongue.

Spicy

fall, becoming dry brown fists

to fill  compost bins.

Chores he would happily do

But dishes in piles

were simply his style

His thoughts on this matter were few.

Wooden poles in the alley,

Removed bit by bit.

Fills our house with sweet perfume,

nights full of longing.

where I always sit, as it did

on the back of the kitchen char where he always sat.

I put it on whenever I come in,

as he did, stamping

the snow from his boots.

I put it on and sit in the dark.

He would not have done this.

Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.

His laws were a secret.

But I remember the moment at which I knew

he was going mad inside his laws.

He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.

He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.

Not only because it was a hot July afternoon

but the look on his face–

as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning

for a long trip

on cold trains and windy platforms

will sit very straight at the edge of his seat

while the shadows like long fingers

over the haystacks that sweep past

keep shocking him

because he is riding backwards.