www.oro.net/~molly.

I Would Give You

back, if I could, the sixty feet of air you fell through, I would
pull you through it like drawing a bucket of water
up from the depths of a well, pulling at the moment just before
your head hit the rock, hearing the echo as drops splashed back
into the dark, although your marriage would probably
survive and you would end up where you were headed,
then, writing plays in New York without me.

I would give you the lightning mind you used to have, which flickers fiercely
at me tonight in a heated discussion about Arthurian
legend. I bow to your clear assertions, knowing how
the chambers of the brain hold everything forever, although
the doors are sometimes stuck. I would give you back your children,
boy and girl almost in college now you never write too, and your confidence,
so writing them would be like floating and the short walk
to the mailbox, a kind of happiness striking sparks beneath your feet.

I would give more money than I have ever earned if it would
help, although I spend it faster than I make it and money is just paper
stained green with ink-no one's happiness resides there. Instead,
I'll draw you pictures of Franklin and Jackson to glue
to your dashboard or tear into strips for confetti, which we can
toss from the car windows, driving down Broad Street on the 4th of July.

If I lived in Tibet I would give you China, its trade sanctions, every
machine gun, I would give you yak butter sculptures and medallions
drawn on the ground with colored sand. I'd walk in front of you
picking up earthworms and carrying them out of the way of your feet.
For you, I would braid my red hair twice, wind it around my head
in daylight, wear it loose at night.

But since we live in California, I will listen to your stories
about the Rolling Stones and hang lists on the icebox to help organize
your life. I'll tell you the name of our housepainter friend
for the fiftieth time and still love you. I'll let you hold me all night
until my dead father's breath recedes from the back of my neck,
until the stars grow pale, until I stop shaking.

 

All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.