As Natural As Breath

—Poems by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman
 

 

WATER STRIDER

spindly strider’s legs balance
slide across lake’s liquid surface
holds himself just above water
teen high on hormones
dancing on balls of his feet
propels forward
leaves far shore in his wake
shadows of his jointed legs
draw black hexagram on silver lake
his walk magic
as natural as breath

GRATITUDE

I perched on the bus bench, squinting into late afternoon sun
tired and footsore after hours of miscellaneous tasks
ready for a quiet night alone in my small studio
writing, reading, listening to music
hugging my pillow through the night

instead of the bus, a tall, shapely Black woman approached
nicely dressed in clean casual wear and boots
hair and make-up in place
pulling a black cart filled with boxes and bags
in her outstretched hand, a plastic bag
of frozen chicken breasts from the market
Here, can you use some frozen chicken;
I don’t want to throw it away, she entreated

I answered her straightforwardly
No thanks on the chicken
she went on to explain that she is now homeless
after paying rent for seven years,
because her sister evicted her without notice
public assistance avenues all let her down
and she is done with Sacramento
on her way to put her cart of boxes in storage, then to the hospital
leaving this city for a smaller town
where people might care, her next goal

the bus still had not come
she was still grasping the bag of chicken, partly resting it on the cart
she started to explain why she couldn’t put the chicken—
which she’d never have bought
if she’d known her sister was planning to throw her out—in storage 
I told her that I saw her point
and was sorry about her sister

the bus rolled up, we got on
an elderly lady in a headscarf
surreptitiously handed out pamphlets for her church
one passenger accepted the frozen chicken
we finally reached my stop
sun having tucked under the Earth
sky slowly darkening
as I left the bus, I stopped, squeezed her hand
whispered, Hang in there, good luck!
although she recoiled from my touch, startled

MEETING MY INNER DRAGON
            At Humboldt State University, 1999
 
the English building’s old bricks exude cold
breath that insinuates into my nose and mouth
fresh paint fails to seal crumbling walls
from corners, memories of blood, urine, vomit
pervade this morning’s nicotine-soaked halls
Queen Dragon’s whisper draws me up steep, winding stairs
and deep within the black hole of her lair
sword drawn, I confront her
then recognize she wears my face, and must defer

COMPROMISE

Quiet; the quiet of seduction, of heat, of the long, horizontal, burnt-blond, liquid summer sun’s rays flowing, pouring over this small pool, the side pool.  The water here remains cleaner than at the crowded large pool, the trees grow closer, create more shade; one beauty resembles bushes of lilacs but is not, despite blossoms that converge into dangling lavender cones, like stamens bearing their rich yellow pollen, but the color of lilacs.

A young black couple, lovely, silent in what seems post-or pre-coital communion, tender with each other, test the water.  I encourage her, “Come in, it’s warm,” and it is—pristine, glistening.  They smile, assured, tolerant of me, but in truth oblivious, bound within their own dance, close, touching each other lightly.  Besides us three, only a pair of young boys.

This pool’s solitude, tucked as it is into our apartment’s quiet corner, contrasts with the larger pool that rocks and cranks with hilarity, barbeque, residents’ hard-edged, late-Sunday desperation to release, to connect; families grab what they can, too loud, too many to make room for my determined twenty laps, my glorious breathing and all-over stretching, underwater gliding—like them, I need to release. 

At first, I crawl fast, hard, this smaller pool’s length in two breaths; then tiring already, switch to side, an easy stroke for me; then flip onto my back, extending my arms their full scope around my head like making snow angels in water, legs a slow mirror, back arched; I glide and float.

Rolling over for another lap of crawl, drinking in the late breeze, a turtle dove’s cooing, the flickering sun, I glide over the two boys, who, like minnows, dart past each other underwater, perpendicular to me.  After a few laps like this, and after one boy stops in front of me, so that I must pause and wait; I am sad but sure of their pre-adolescent voyeurism, whatever that might mean towards this middle-aged swimmer, solitary in my one-piece, blue tank.  One boy complains, “I can’t see, under there,” and I just know.  I look at them hard, make sure they understand I’m on to them.

My body craving the missed laps, the challenge for heart and breath, I steer to the pool’s edge and paddle around, reluctant to leave the few laps un-swum, the lilac trees, white sun and blue breeze.  Slipping from the water, I grab sandals and towel, push through the black iron gate and pad back to my building, caught between the fullness of my unarticulated passion and my hard-won, knife-edged refusal to be an object of lust and scorn.

GRADING INTO SUMMER NIGHT

ceiling fan whirs, circles
wafts air, cools naked shoulders
sweat-soaked ropes
of hair pinned up

glasses slip, I sink within
three AM, silent outside
lowered blinds, windows open

Today’s LittleNip:

WORDPLAY
—Ann Wehrman

a singular subject
takes a singular verb
take me, I am singular
ripe like spring’s glistening
first plum

a subject must take a verb—
without verbs,
subjects just dance in the wind
like laundry drying on a line
whip-snapping fresh in the sun

take me and run
thought and motion as one

__________________

Our thanks to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for today’s fine posting!

Drop in to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar tonight, 8pm, for Ike Torres Live, plus open mic. That’s 1414 16th St. in Sacramento. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating poetry (and poets) every day of the week!

 Caveperson Poetry Reading

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