2 Poems

by Michael H. Brownwtein

I DID NOT KNOW HER LIFETIME COMPANION PASSED ON

For Mary Oliver

I

And now there is no one else in her seat
And the grey clouds of dawn are like a zipper.

ll

You get on the wrong train
And it’s summertime
And you know you have to get home,
But you have never seen these pictures before.
You let stop after stop go by,
The city one mood, then another.

lll

The sun opens its mouth as wide as the song of the
cicada.

lV

When you do arrive,
It is dark outside,
Yet dinner is waiting for you.
Someone stretches out a foot for you to rub,
And you rub it.

V

Dawn comes in on the wind,
And you are not on the train to work,
But somewhere on the beach,
Purple water, herring gulls,
A whisper to the waves,
All of the sand in the entire world,
And this one memory to hold forever.

Vl

The Lady of the Moon fades in the white sky,
And it seems to you one of her eyes blinks—
You’re sure of this and bewildered—
And then, like a fog rolling in,
The shadow of the Lady of the Moon
Sticks out her tongue and smiles—
And you see this and know it to be true.

Vll

On the way home, noon rising with pillows and silk,
You stop by a grasp of trees and lean into one of them.
You have a book you think will bring pleasure
And a breeze leaps into the leaves to listen.

Vlll

I did everything you asked of me,
And, yes, it mattered.

* * *

I LOOKED INTO THE WIND PIPE AND SAW A BUBBLE OF BLOOD

Now I know how writing poetry can be treacherous. (Did I phrase it right?) I said I would not tell and I told everything.--Li Young Lee (parenthesis mine)

Isn't it funny how you go somewhere and everything becomes bright and water colored,
the light and shade blending into shapes of spears and automatic weapons and
broken pipes?

I've been there before more than I can admit
and I know for sure I'll be there again.

You enter a space with one objective in mind,
get to where you want to be and discover another much more interesting.
Is this how the painter paints?
Is this why the zebra likes to move through the grassland?
Is this why the blossom opens early?

I went somewhere and it was not bright.
Then I entered and it was bright.

Is everything always as simple as that?

* * *

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, After Hours, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review and others. In addition, he has eight poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004) and What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005).

Brownstein teaches elementary school in Chicago ’s inner city, studies authentic African instruments with his students, conducts grant-writing workshops for educators and the State of Illinois Title 1 Convention, and records performance and music pieces with grants from the City of Chicago ’s Department of Cultural Affairs, the Oppenheimer Foundation, BP Leadership Grants, and others.