PoetryMagazine.com Feaure Poet Rina Ferrarelli

A Walk in the Morning

I've stayed away from treadmills and tracks,

and the close air of shopping malls,

walking the circuitous paths

from what once was a hollow to what once

was a ridge, part of the season,

and of the small community

that sets out in the morning: scattered troops

of track and cross country runners

their vests flashing orange

as they push by, flushed and eager;

women who drop their children off

at nursery school and then jog together

talking all the time; courtly older men

who keep a measured pace and never fail

to meet my eye as they nod or say hello.

The dog lover with the cane

who walks her poodles one at a time.

Like a child who can't wait to grow up,

I rush through the first mile, mile and a half,

and then slow down on the way back,

catching my breath and looking around:

I watch the age of the lily

follow the age of the peony, the age of the lilac;

the rose that endures through fall.

Soon, purple and yellow mums will appear,

in stiff bunches, straight rows.

A maple's gone. The township men

are shredding the stump.

A new tree will take its place in the spring.

That foil-wrapped house

is getting a facial. And wall by wall,

floor by floor the framework's going up

on the new public safety building.

You could use it this month

to show the passing of days

as they did calendar pages in old movies.

(First appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review)

Amarene

A stain like wine on the fresh

Italian bread, and the small

wild cherries glazed,

shining like garnets. You pause,

allow their beauty to fill your eyes.

You count on the bread and jam

to be fragrant and sweet,

and a little bit tart,

but the marmellata you like so much

tastes sour this morning.

It's the same jar you've been dipping into

in a month of scattered days,

the one with the sepia label

of a Trappist monastery, rectangular

buildings making a square

around a courtyard, a setting

you know intimately--you played

in the cloisters of one like it--tall,

floor to arch windows

looking out on an inner garden:

formal arrangements, fixed,

pre-set boundaries. Predicable,

unlike the subtle change

you're experiencing today--a random

occurrence, perhaps, temporary,

too much or not enough of some

substance, a trace element even,

that's all it takes sometimes

to tip the balance.

Or it could just as well be

something pre-disposed:

a timer that goes off inside,

releasing or withholding hormones,

enzymes, proteins, starting

or shutting off functions.

Of 300 buds on each papilla,

(your senses sharper than most),

how many are left? Even the coffee

bitter, despite sweetening.

You wonder what it is

and what it means within the body/

mind conundrum, and whether

you'll invent reasons

that have nothing to do with chemistry

because you can’t stand the void.

( First appeared in VIA-Voices in Italian Americana)

The Weather of Our Season

The trees that line the street

are still reduced to their limbs,

exposed

and the snow that wiped all difference

a few days ago

lies granular as sugar

mounded on their roots,

at the edge of walks,

clean-scented snowmelt

running down the slope across my path.

Before long,

the grass will brighten,

yellow coltsfoot and purple violets

will lend a note of color,

a fragrance

to the yards, and the sticks and branches

that look so dead now

will gradually come back to life.

But nothing will revive in the winter

we inhabit

erasure the signature

of the winter without spring.

The evening protocol

As the sun goes down,

I stand between the fading light

and the darker dark,

trying to keep the fangs at the door

from entering our waking hours,

his dreams at night.

We watch Everybody Loves Raymond,

and he laughs and laughs,

and I laugh with him.

He may or may not follow

Jeopardy, and what comes next

forgotten every day,

something I put him through:

the drops in the green bottle,

the pills—two sizes and shades of pink,

the orange and turquoise capsule.

I tuck him in, and give him a peck,

or he blows me a kiss,

on faith, who knows who I am,

friend, caregiver, the woman

who’s boss here. Whatever here

is. Not home, never home.

(First appeared in Paterson Literary Review)

Bath Time

He takes the bath he refused in the morning,

sulking, running to the basement and sitting

in a chair for half an hour. As if hiding

from me. He sits at last on the side of the tub,

legs in, and I soap his feet, his legs--still straight

and attractive, bonier, scrapes on the shins

like a boy’s--give him the cloth and let him soap

himself, while I slowly name his body parts,

and when he misses the prompt or seems confused,

I point, then take the rag and do his back—

somewhat stooped now, that shallow groove I loved,

gone; wash the crack wiped clean of shit. Standing,

he turns under the warm water, rubs the dollop

of shampoo all over his head, rinses off.

Swaddled in a large blue towel, he dries himself.

I sprinkle talcum on his back, under his arms,

between his toes; help him into a fresh T-shirt,

a clean pull-up. He’s calmer, wants to go to bed.

Walks to the room with his name on the door,

puts his pajamas on, lies down. I pray for no

hallucinations, no nightmares. Few, if any

interruptions. Good night, I say. Good night,

sleep tight, he says. Don’t let the bed bugs bite,

I counter, and we end this day with a smile, laughter.

(First appeared in Tar River Poetry)

“The Weather of our Season,” “Evening Protocol” and “Bath Time” are from The Winter Without Spring, Main Street Rag, 2018.