Second Winter

I C maj

During the second winter,
We made our own arrangements;
The city closed without official instruction.
And everyone got sick, but apparently only mildly.

It was difficult to know how afraid to be.
I wanted someone to tell me:
Stay, run. Go here or there.
Worry or don’t worry. 

In the meantime I took the Amtrak north.
I did not get off at our old station
(and whether it would have felt like home,
I don’t know).

And I said this to you:
I said “when was the last time you were this happy”
Without it being a question.
Stay, don’t run. Don’t worry.

That night my fingers were sticky
From dark sugar dripping off the ribs
And dark cherries we had eaten all summer.
Your legs moved up and down the stairs,
Carrying my things.

In the summer
You touched my ribs first.
That’s where I wanted you to touch first.
The 12 smooth bones of my body’s right side,
12 like the piano.

ii d min

I pry myself out of bed to take a bath.
The house is quiet,
And I am very peaceful, all of a sudden.
Cross-legged, alone,
Watching the water
Drain away from the body.

All day you speak to me in voices,
As if I am a child,
Or a cat you love.

When have I ever given myself
Over to someone?

Already a year of our lives. How
to think about all of the changes?
I told you: I was different then:
Loved someone different;
My parents married, my grandparents living.

You say now I seem more able to be taken by the day. 
For instance, that morning I go out and get lost
With the wet, beloved dog.
I see no one on the misty little streets.
Then finally a lady who leads me home.

Or how I have no plans to learn the piano,
Yet for a while the house fills
With the first three measures of Bach’s Bourrée.