Poetry Magazine, Roger Pfingston, January 2002

Poetry Magazine

Roger Pfingston

USA

APPLE TREE

Ripped and tossed on its side
by a quick corridor of wind,
the apple tree survives root-
naked, umbilical tangle
nurturing still the baby-fisted fruit,
the bushy spread a haven now
for nesting rabbits, foraging deer.

At first I thought to ax the roots,
chainsaw the limbs and drag it
piecemeal into the woods
it never quite joined, as if by
standing apart it knew its blooms
would sing against that dark scrim.

Poem for My Daughter
to Read Ten Years Hence

Half naked on the couch,
your screaming
muffled in a crumpled afghan,
you ball up on knees and elbows,
your derriere where your face would be
if you were sitting: this
because you cannot find your leotards.

To make it better for us all
I clown a quick story,
something about leotards
leaping free in the front yard,
having shaped themselves with snow.

Listening now,
you unfold red-eyed
as they come dancing in,
melting blue on the carpet
where they crawl slowly under the couch,
one toe barely showing, crimped
like a knit brow.
Determinedly grim,
you reach down without a word,
bring them up and quickly slide
your legs as deep as they will go,
though not so deep as ten years hence
when sixteen and smiling you'll shake
your head at this and... finish my poem.

THANKSGIVING
for my mother

After a record rainfall,
allusions to the ark
and the pairing of life--

Who or what would you save?--
the sun appeared like a trick
and like a trick disappeared.

But you, Esther, biblical
in name and spirit,
sustain us still, no tricks

in your house that shines
like salvation itself. Four sons,
wives and grandchildren,

all in our Sunday best,
wiping our feet and knocking
like a loud blooming at your door.

WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

You sit naked
on the edge
of the bed

trying to decide
flats or heels
before you dress.

In the mirror
I fumble my
poet's knot.

In 2000
we'll both be
60. I say go

for it. Heels,
my Love, heels
till you tilt.