By Lisa Russ Spaar
In Lenten overture, I float on tissue-pomped façade
of chicken-wire trailer, intoxications, fumes of gasoline,
liquor, & overwork, day scatting its gilt beads
into night's black-bound book, hinging every hope.
Aisles of wonder lead me, charcoal strokes
of thinned thicket, window flare. I'm writing toward you,
palms bloody with henna, through the fiercest neighborhoods.
I should be honest. My car’s parked at Food Lion
& I'm pushing a wire cart through the pyramids,
headless vials of wine, frozen meat in caskets
so oddly spousal I shut my eyes and whistle past them.
How long can this trip be if I already see its end?
Truly: I can't whistle. Yet hold tomorrow's ashes in my mouth,
hot as your blue limbs, a secret pendulum hung with silks.
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I had an uneventful Monday of washing laundry that will get folded Tuesday, working on three different writing projects, chatting with a couple of friends, going to a doctor's appointment, and taking a lovely long walk in the woods near twilight. Older son managed to smash his laptop screen picking up the computer from the couch, which is bad news, and husband got his full bonus for the year at work, which is good news. Plus he made Indian food for dinner and I could enjoy it because my blood pressure was 122/78.
While waiting for the doctor, I depressed myself reading news from Wisconsin, Libya, Utah, and just now Guantanamo Bay. We watched Chicago Code and Harry's Law, though we were on the phone with my in-laws during much of the former so I don't remember much about what happened, and the latter had several ridiculous coincidences but also had Camryn Manheim so that was awesome. I am much more tired than I should be for no apparent reason, so here are some photos of the National Capitol Columns at the National Arboretum, and more tomorrow for Mardi Gras!
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