Waiting At Home

 

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Chris Feldman

WAITING AT HOME FOR THE WORLD TO REOPEN

home wears many faces
but the heart remains the same
as simple as curling next to you
sleeping on a mattress on the floor

once I found home
sheltering under a tree
I loved the rich, deep-green redwood
asked her to join me in the afterlife
along with a jumble of cats,
a dog, and a sweet, lone spider
from the laundry room
connections I’ve made
through the years living alone

I’ve gotten good at staying home
done it more than I should have for years
preferred it to being alone in crowds
missing that deep union, one-on-one

coronavirus made time stand still
run backward, upside down
everyone now must stay home
face loved ones, face herself

doves sing outside my window
sunlight streams through
neighbors quarrel, their bed creaks
city neighbors maintain anonymity
people stay six feet apart
pool closed, gym closed
groceries delivered, pay rent online

night draws darkness in a wash of indigo
morning a Grand Canyon away
nowhere to go, no one to talk to
computer, phone digital lifelines
I still hate the phone, though
have time to finally take out the recycling
tiny studio its own world, home for now 

 

 

 

 

THE MIGHTY HUNTER
      (For Judy)

bleary-eyed, I force myself
wake up, shower, dress
zippered within warm fleece—scarf, hood
morning wind, damp fog
wait on the sidewalk outside my apartment complex
her electric blue car pulls up

she shops as early as possible
beats the crowds--gets in, gets out
coupons in hand, sharp eyes on the bargains
I would shop on mellow afternoons
but her generous ride to the store and back
roundly beats taking the bus, a hard slog in any weather
I do hunt better alone
slow time in this aisle or that
inspecting labels, searching through shelves
produce, meats—consider what to make

when hunting with Judy, I feel it when she finishes
halfway through the hour we agreed to take
I’m still buried in frozen foods, aisle 10
should I stock up on pizza, off my diet
cheap burritos? better I make my own

Judy’s already burned through the aisles
snared wild salmon on sale
olives, pork shoulder, fresh blueberries
refilled her giant distilled water bottles
had time to use the restroom
now waits on the wooden bench by the exit
lost in the novel she carries in her bag for times like this

I wave at her from check out
pay, bag my groceries
we wheel carts to her car
she drops me off, quick hug—not yet noon
no long talk today, no shared meal or coffee
we hunted separately—she sprinted, I tried to keep up
making memories
my friend, the mighty hunter 

 

 

 

 

BURIED

like legionnaires or prison bars
whitewashed balusters support top rail
under foot-thick pile of snow
indistinct in glaring whiteness
from porch it rims
snow-piled grounds
visible through the rails

in the distance, like a heartbeat
red roof peeks through leafless trees
their sap tangible as an aura
behind and around
cold black limbs 

 

 

 

—Photo by invisiblesith (from Pixabay)

 

 

 

WALKING THROUGH THE DEPARTMENT STORE
ON CHRISTMAS EVE

velvet gowns, star-white silk blouses
with soft, long bows, black top hats
jewelry gleams, and then perfumes—
surreptitious spray on my wrist
nice but can’t compare to
My Sin, deep exotic portal into passion
now vintage, retired in 1988

I’d sneak into Mom’s bedroom
where a bottle of it lived
part of Nana’s estate, perhaps
like the king-sized mahogany bed filling the room
though by then, Dad had moved to my sister’s old room
and my teen-aged sister had moved out
Mom wore signature Shalimar
beautiful, dominating, perfect for her
which left My Sin for me—I’d dab just a little

she bought me Muguet des Bois, Tabu cologne
cheap scents, good enough
for small town, high school romance
football games, weekend dances
hormones, peer pressure, family’s expectations

over the years, essential oils replaced my perfumes
then I stopped wearing fragrance
friends, fellow musicians
complained, claimed allergies
I know, feel the same about smokers

this Christmas, I found
old half-full perfume bottles in my closet
not My Sin, unfortunately, nor even Shalimar
but a wonderful roll-on of Black Opium oil
along with cheap spray cologne from Bath and Body Works
which made me cough when I tried it on

strolling through the department store
no gifts this year, sending e-cards, no celebration
I stop, spray an unknown brand on my wrist 

 

 

 

—Photo by miguterrez (from Pixabay)

 

Today’s LittleNip:

winter magic
—Ann Wehrman

diamond crystals deceptively white
soft as dandelion pappi
dissolve on my tongue
make a wish

 

___________________________

 
—Medusa, with gratitude to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for a lovely post today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       
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LittleSnake on table with perfume