NOON ON THE PORCH--THIS TIME

 

NOON ON THE PORCH--THIS TIME

Karen at the quilt show in a wheel chair.

She won’t have to rent, we won’t have to pack

one in the car. Provided by the Convention Center.

She had to leave them her driver’s license

while I drove.

The day our life changed?

Our life changes with every breath.

The fountain’s on, water’s running

through my ears—the geraniums

all in planters out front. More in the back

with other annuals—heliotrope

in the moonlight makes me think

of Our Town. Purple haze. More

in back with cotton candy. Jimi

and Prince. After

dropping Karen off at the show

I found two trivets—three feet--

risers to lift planters off porch,

that good old word lifts the kettle

right off the stove! These, however,

with four feet and a new name, hmmm.

Also a bag of thistle for the finches.

But where are they? The finches?

I’ve been looking at this notebook.

Haven’t been able to open.

The notebook sits on top of the poems.

Antonio Machado leaves the classroom

with Willis Barnstone and Alan Trueblood.

My own walk parted with Trueblood years ago,

Caminante. Walking. Más caminante que él--no--

Lonelier. Barnstone transcended early.

Mixed in with geraniums, four

sweet potato vines I picked up

at Master Gardener’s sale I attended

with my son-in-law. Heart-shaped leaves.

Two lime-colored, two burgundy.

No blossoms yet. Seven days from last Friday

we sold the truck that carries the Mothership.

Storypath/Cuentocamino in red. Black slash.

Romanian brothers. The older one

hands me 210 100-dollar bills on this porch.

Karen says, We’ll have to take these to the bank.

Los gitanos in Chile and Spain. Walking.

Long-walking. It’s cool on the porch.

Porch room. Like a Japanese tea room.

Elegant. Two hours after we get back

from the bank, Karen’s doctor calls.

I want you to go to the ER, get a CAT scan.

There could be a clot in your lungs.

It wasn’t a clot. Más luna que tierra.

Complete heart blockage. Nobody

in Yakima to do the surgery. We’ll get you

a plane and a medical team from Seattle

are on their way, we found a bed

at Good Samaritan in Puyallup.

More moon than landscape, Machado.

My car follows the crescent moon.

Mountains in the night sky.

Manantiel de nueva vida.

Pacemaker sounds like the drummer

in a jazz band. Electronics

of the heart. This quartet has ceased

all communication. Life on the road.

Caminante, son tus huellas

hace el camino. Nada más.

Twenty two years ago Machado

walks me through Spain, south

to Lorca’s Grenada. Doble cortado

in the same café. Driving at night.

Karen in the air with a dropping heart-rate,

these lime colored leaves, these blood-red vines.

Teresa de Avila and John of the Cross in ecstasy,

walking. Lorca’s Duende, dark sounds,

breath of liberation. Six pots on the porch,

flowers and leaves and compost

from the Autumn Blaze Maple and China Moon,

hand-tossed and aged nourishing tiny roots.

A fountain. Over and back rhythms.

48 hours. Karen listening with this steady beat.

Her quilts in a show. Quilts in the City.

Variation on a Summer Moon, Mariner’s Compass,

and Abstract Bee. Her work from the past year

when we didn’t know what we didn’t know.

Walking being that wheel chair today

because it’s easier that way. Water music

and words running down the page.

Sunshine and shade. Sol y sombra.

Jim Bodeen

10–20 May 2024