The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Mary Ann Larkin

BEING SEEN

                  for Shirley and Hazel

The old beauties gasp onto cushions

at churches or art shows,

reach for each other's hands.

"Lovely to see you," they say, bending

each to each—once-plumaged birds

after a long migration.

"My daughter . . . " "my son . . ."

they say, or "The house is sold."

Old quarrels shadow away.

A vast tenderness engulfs them

as of survivors

who know what's been lost:

a peacock feather,

rivalries fierce and narrow-eyed,

skin like satin,

the sea, the fires, the dunes,

their babies' flesh.

They become again

vessels in full sail, wind-blown,

sun-struck.  Heads move closer,

eyes quench a thirst

they'd almost forgotten.

"Come and see me," they call,

though they have been seen.

"I will.  I will," they lie,

as keepers trundle them away.

WANTING

The poet sits in his easy chair,

hope vanishing

like the steam from his chipped mug.

He's waiting for his blue-eyed girl,

the one with the honey-colored hair.

The clock ticks.

She'll stop it

when she comes.  And she will come,

except—there's always a last time,

and the tart will never tell him:  This is it

or good-bye.  She's all good news,

all shimmer and glow, her voice

bubbling on and on, until

he's young again, caught up

in the threads of her hair

which he'll follow

into the maze of himself,

to the place where only she

knows the turns—the last time

as good as the first.