It's Almost Time for Dinner

It’s Almost Time for Dinner
By Beth Cortez-Neavel
I
Sometimes
you can sit in a graying hanging-basket swing (so weathered by the years on St. Lawrence),
on an island with             pine trees
so dense and
humming birds
so small and             fast outside
of the screened-in             porch windows.
And they are gone to the store
it is just you                        and
the rain.
 
Sometimes youcan revel in the sound of boats churning the waves that will
hit             the lichen-covered rocks and
kiss the toes of your feet as
you                                     inhale
that unholy smoke and
exhale
into blue,
waiting for dinner.
 
Sometimes a blue and white sailboat will dock in your bay and the fishing line will tangle
when it’s cast and
the rain will come down all day and the oven will refuse to heat and…
 
Sometimes the world will call for writing, but all you can scribble is “I miss you,” and
“I want you,” and
‘I absolutely need you.”
 
II
Sometimes
you can write
a whole poem about
a                                     droplet
of rain             on             the end of
a single
pine-needle,
and how from far away it looks
stagnant,
hanging,
like the jewel                         on the end
of an upside-
down
scepter.
 
III
Sometimes
the Canadian sand
between your
copper-painted toenails can inspire
a whole song of rebirth and,                         just so
the wind can blow kisses against your eardrums
so the goldfinches’             tonal             suggestions
are not lost. Sometimes you can feel a             whole
novel
well up             in your chest and
curdle in your brain and
then: sit,             waiting,             rotting
in your fingertips because
all that throws itself onto the page is
How far away he is.
How soft her lips are.
How safe his arms,
when they held you before you left.
 
How delicious her neck smelled as you nuzzled into it before you came in her.
How you wept when you found him not in your bed when you woke.
How you didn’t bathe for two days after she got on that plane because her             scent
was still all over you.
 
And
sometimes
all you want to do is drink your tea and watch
the rain hit the dock
and the boat that won’t start
and thelilypads above the catfish that won’t bite
or
listen to the muted chirrups of soggy birds
and think about the one you love and
their smile and how it’s not raining in Texas.
 
And all you can do is write and             hope
that the fish start biting soon
because it’s almost time for dinner.