Two POEMS
Grace Mattern
A Widow's Manual
Widow As Bluebird
More and more widows and bluebirds
as spouses fall away and bluebirds stay
through our weaker and weaker winter
months of gray, the feeding flocks
luminous among bare branches. Now a bluebird
lights in a sapling along the fence row
as another widow arrives, nips bush to bush
as we walk up the road and dream ourselves
cloaked in July sky. As if bidden, more
birds appear and pepper us with blue.
- You haven’t always been here. No one has. The stink of fever breath is disturbing. You no longer need to be ashamed.
- You wrote down your questions so you’d remember to ask the nurse. You’re not expected to know the answers anymore.
- Leave the house as if nothing has changed. Remember how you shopped for groceries, went to the pharmacy, had coffee with friends. You walked along rivers, rarely alone.
- If you’re hungry, answer when you hear a knock on the door. Food arrives in paper bags, plastic tubs, in casseroles wrapped in towels. Be prepared for vanilla cake with chocolate frosting or a crumble made with oatmeal and local peaches.
- Look at the summer yard, the parched grass, the garden of weeds, seed heads drooping in the unmown field, the hammock and chair beneath linden trees. Sit where he sat for weeks, green pellets raining on him.
- Notice the hydrangea, stunted and weighted with blossoms, too big and blue. Don’t pick a bouquet.
- Squeeze into bed as if the heat of his skin still burns. Fill your bed with books and bricks.
- Run your hand along the window frame as the room fills with moon, rectangles of light on the floor, shifting on the axis of the sill.
- Read the Tao Te Ching aloud to Chapter 30, where the last rasp escaped. Just do what needs to be done.
Widow As Bluebird
More and more widows and bluebirds
as spouses fall away and bluebirds stay
through our weaker and weaker winter
months of gray, the feeding flocks
luminous among bare branches. Now a bluebird
lights in a sapling along the fence row
as another widow arrives, nips bush to bush
as we walk up the road and dream ourselves
cloaked in July sky. As if bidden, more
birds appear and pepper us with blue.
Grace Mattern's poetry and prose have been published widely, including in The Sun, Prairie Schooner, Yankee and Calyx. She received fellowships from the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts and Vermont Studio Center and has published two books, The Truth About Death and Fever of Unknown Origin. Recent work includes visual art and explores the integration of image and text. She regularly participates in local exhibitions, showing her collages and visual/sculptural poetry. She can be found on IG @gracemattern and on the web at www.gracemattern.com.