Just as I was gauging My Happiness Quotient
I mangled a spider
in the laundry line wheel–
before resuming My Favourite Chore
I had to leave My Deck
to get a tissue
to sop up the yellow blob
of That Instant
“Here’s The Little Man, way up here deep in the forest.
He’s feeling his way out. He’s looking around.”
“Make him come out.”
“Now The Little Man’s on the edge of a steep cliff–”
“I can see him.”
“Quick– He slides down the cliff– swoop!
He jumps over the next bump to find himself
on padded ground.”
“I see The Little Man, Pappy!”
“The Little Man walks ahead to his little ledge–
He puts one foot in either track– he looks around
and bends his knees and looks to the right
and then to the left.”
“Does he see me?”
“The Little Man looks over
the edge of an even steeper cliff–”
“Does he see me?”
“The Little Man sees a little girl named L’il Bits Boogen
waaay down at the bottom of the cliff.”
“Pappy– make him fly!”
“The Little Man’s looking down–”
“Jump!”
“He’s looking around–”
“He’s gonna fly!”
“The Little Man’s thinking of flying, any second–”
“Make him fly!”
“He’s testing the wind.”
“Make him jump!”
“He’s thinking of jumping–”
“JUMP!”
“Jump! The Little Man’s flying down to Boogie! Weeeee!”
“Weeeeee!”
Locked in The Cradle of Security
with Dr Blair’s soothing Right Hand
along My Left Forearm
My Window is open to The Shush of Southerly Waves
My Insides digest a pill of Olanzapine
& I Am Set Free
to Go To Sleep
I spy a stalwart Robin
perched on My Neighbour’s Laundry Pole
–
I watch awhile
until She flies
down to the grass
& there goes My Poem
–
Oh My God — She’s Back!
–
I forgot The Fog–
The Fog is wafting past Her
The Hedge is rustling below Her–
–
Oh, There She Goes–
I’m sitting on My Tomato-coloured Couch
eating a “croisant”–
Eliza gets mad at Me
for NOT pronouncing the “R”–
She’s off on a 7-hour drive
to Cape Breton
towing a trailer of sail boats
& She’s still 17–
leaving Her First Serious Boyfriend
for 5 days
steering the Escape steering wheel
with Her Left Knee
while She Texts Him
The Hawk Deck 7:20 pm
HOUSES I HAVE WORKED ON
If My Mother worked on a house
does that count for Me?
She rubbed lemon oil into My Father’s Furniture
before the move to McNutt Island
when I was a child–
I did re-paint My Bedroom there
before the arrival of My First Husband
Then He & I pregnant with Our First Born
built The Thoreau House–
the one-room post & beam
We wouldn’t sell for a million dollars
He & I fixed up The Shakespeare House
in Shelburne for My Mother–
She paid us–
& then We bought our own
with no electricity & no plumbing–
I put My Soul into that Atlantic House
if not My Heart
& then My Mother died
& My Days of House-fixing were over.
–
I had Eliza & an affair
with an adoring doctor–
My Second Husband now–
& The House He & I have on The Hawk
should be My Final Resting Place–
though I feel It may not be
despite all the trim here
I have painted:
Living Room, Dining Room
Family Room, Hallway
Balcony, Stairs
& Corner Room–
and all The Artwork I have hung
I am waiting in The Fog
with audible surf
and the occasional call
from a sea bird
–
waiting for The World
to collapse
but I somehow doubt It will:
The World is like A Very Strong Mother–
She may lie down for a nap
but always fixes supper
She may live in Her Bathrobe
yet maintains Her Modesty
She cleans when She feels like it
and gets Her Children to clean up
after Themselves
–
She loves everybody in Her House
Her Home is Her Sanctuary
She Is Her Own World
Joanna Gilman Hyde 