Open Shutters Read Free Page A

the cold
    of himself, a wide-brimmed hat
    shielding his unshelled
    almond eyes and carrot
    nose from a burning snowlight
    ruddied by low sun—
    he’s readier than she
    (reverting, herself, to pure
    put-upon type, the impatient
    teenager) to pose
    for a snapshot side by side—
    each soon to disappear,
    him shrinking as she grows.
    But not before Monday morning.
    Slipping out to hunt
    the rolled-up paper, dreading
    along with it the widespread
    old news of Sunday’s snow
    gone smudged, a little yellow,
    I find instead a fine
    life-dust on everything:
    snow on the snowman’s hat
    (whose brim serves to define
    the line between what’s molded
    by us, and snow like that);
    snow too light to burden
    his rounded back or shoulders,
    or mine, the shoveler’s;
    snow like breakfast crumbs
    I nearly brush from his scarf
    before I catch myself.
    Inside, I stamp my boots
    and call upstairs.
You’re late,
    I usually say;
you must
    eat your toast, it’s getting cold;
    how can you take an hour
    to decide which jeans to wear?
    In a corner, the forgotten
    broom still marks the place
    of yesterday in the room.
    “Come down,” I call up again.
    “Come see the snowed-on snowman.”

Light-Footed

AN INTERLUDE

Deliveries Only
            
for Sarah Marjorie Lyon, born in a service elevator
    Your whole life long, you’ll dine
    out on the same questions:
    In your building? On what floor?
    Was it going up or down?
    They’ll need the precise location—
    Seventy-ninth and Lex?—
    as if learning it could shield them
    from the consequences of sex.
    Wasn’t your mother a doctor?
    Didn’t she talk him through
    how to do it?
And then you’ll tell them
    how your father delivered you,
    that only after your birth
    did he think to reach in her bag
    and dial 911.
    He held you up like a phone
    and was taught how to cut the cord.
    What about proper hygiene?
    When did the ambulance come?
    Waiting, you were the siren,
    squalling in a rage
    behind the old-fashioned mesh
    of the elevator door:
    a Lyon cub in her cage.
    Didn’t your parents worry?
    Hadn’t they done Lamaze?
    But you’ll only shrug at your story:
    That was the way it was.

School Pictures
    Nobody wants them, not even Mom. And Dad
    always pretends they fell out of his wallet.
    Not even at thirteen could we look that bad.
    Maybe it’s trick photography, like an ad.
    We combed our hair. When did somebody maul it?
    Nobody wants them, not even Mom and Dad.
    No self-respecting kid would wear that plaid.
    She looks so Eighties in that whatchamacallit.
    Not even at thirteen could we look that bad.
    Say cheese at 9 a.m.? Jeez, we were mad.
    But we meant to please the public, not appall it.
    Nobody wants them. Not even Mom and Dad,
    homely as they are, have ever had
    a girl you might mistake for Tobias Smollett.
    Not even at thirteen could we look that bad.
    We could try to call it art, the latest fad,
    but could we find a gallery to install it?
    Nobody wants them, not even Mom and Dad.
    Not even at thirteen could we look that bad.

A Morris Dance
    Across the Common, on a lovely May
    day in New England, I see and hear
    the Middle Ages drawing near,
    bells tinkling, pennants bright and gay—
        a parade of Morris dancers.
    One plucks a lute. One twirls a cape.
    Up close, a lifted pinafore
    exposes cellulite, and more.
    O why aren’t they in better shape,
        the middle-aged Morris dancers?
    Already it’s not hard to guess
    their treasurer—her; their president—him;
    the Wednesday night meetings at the gym.
    They ought to practice more, or less,
        the middle-aged Morris dancers.
    Short-winded troubadours and pages,
    milkmaids with osteoporosis—
    what really makes me so morose is
    how they can’t admit their ages,
        the middle-aged Morris dancers.
    Watching them gamboling and tripping
    on Maypole ribbons like leashed dogs,
    then landing, thunderously, on clogs,
    I have to say I feel like skipping
        the middle-aged Morris dancers.
    Yet bunions and