Culling the Petals by Judith Kleck

Description

Culling the Petals

by Judith Kleck

$14, paper

SILENCE

“Silence is more eloquent than words. Speech is of time, silence is of eternity.”

–Thomas Carlyle

 

Before the eloquence of silence

comes the tongue’s bumbling slur.

I learn quickly to avoid the ells.

Por favor (in English) becomes peas.

(And in this disease,

the transition to vegetable matter

is slow but certain, as sure as the seed

becomes vine and bears fruit

that splits into seed. And so on.)

Shortly after the ells, the tees depart,

bees no longer buzz, cees cease.

The inconstant consonants recede.

But the inviolate vowels bloom

and I ahh, ew and ohh

my way through the day

as if newly blessed by what

I see, surprised at what I say.

Never mind that the voice I hear

before I speak is the same voice

I’ve known for years. Never mind

that the woman at the coffee shop

asks for my order twice. Never mind

that the man at the table nearby glances up

wondering if I am drunk or merely

stupid, then looks away ashamed.

His shame is of the moment

and for a moment we share it, silently.

But silence is of eternity and this world

is meant for speech. So, bumble tongue

and lips lisp your way through ineloquent

nonsense; desire, babble your syllables–

until you are the spectacle of sound,

until the vowels close around you

like a shroud, muffled and worn

but warm, warm as the first word

your mother’s face above you spelled.

THE RED-WINGED BLACKBIRDS ARE BACK

you say, but your voice is flat and grey

as the ice on the pond and suddenly that scene out the window–

the white bark of the birch, the black bird,

the mat of pond ice– is flat too, shallow as a photo

we’ve stepped unwillingly into.

For twenty two springs we’ve stood at this window

and watched those birds return to patrol the feeders,

winter relieved by their throaty trills, the promise of tulips

and berries carried on their wings.

Now, love, there is no promise. Still, we are here.

Watching and listening as spring moves in. Just yesterday

two mourning doves bobbed in parody around the tree—

let’s leave that one be. We have come this far. It must do.

It must be enough now to thrill, even in sadness,

to the blackbird’s song.

Let’s step across this dark window’s sill,

the one you gave me long ago in a poem. Listen.

I will be back next spring–noisy, bossy, brassy.

Look for me. I will be the one dressed in black

still wearing my heart, yours, on my sleeve.

 

Walking on Stilts

My son must learn

to walk on stilts,

to morph his six feet

into nine, to become

an  imposing presence,

the ghost of Christmas

Present, cloaked in flowing

green robes, red-bearded

and brazen.  On stage,

each step is carefully

crafted, marked,

practiced to avoid

the first performance

fall.   He  is learning

the body’s tipping point,

its fulcrum,

its old fear of falling.

I, too, am learning

this trick of consciousness.

Every day I wake

and test my legs,

having lowered my

expectations

against a heightened

sense of gravity:

“If  I can walk

to the kitchen and drink

a cup of coffee then today

it is a good day.”

This disease of diminishing–

without returns—means

each day I must take stock

of the body,

determine what’s going,

recall what’s already gone.

So every step becomes

both miracle and manacle.

“You will know when”

my doctor says

meaning I will know

the beginning of each new end.

Disintegration

will follow its own

winding path—tongue

to lips, lips to cheek,

a ironic Easter twitch in the nose.

Teaching my son

to walk– we measured

the steps to insure success,

and arms outstretched

I caught him as he fell.

That was reward

for the distance covered.

And now I think

it only fair to give myself

the same care, to be there

fully when I fall, arms

outstretched, to catch myself

and make my peace

with this grave

and unjust ground.