Light in Light. Deborah Gerrish

      

      Light in Light

      Deborah Gerrish

      Light in Light

      Copyright © 2017 Deborah Gerrish. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1691-4

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-4095-6

      ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-4094-9

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. November 27, 2017

      for Jim

      Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

      —Theodore Roethke

ONE

      This Morning

      the haze lifted early. In the garden, I planted herbs.

      Bluebirds watched. Dew rolled off their feet

      like beads of Muscadet.

      The woodpecker in search of a mate,

      drummed the sycamore tree and I peered

      into the flicker’s tree cavity,

      the small boulevard of insects. Tiny fly-bugs random

      against the squint of the sun—

      grubs, beetles, termites, frozen in a syrup-sap.

      As I listened, I no longer puzzled

      over the playlist of the mockingbird.

      I no longer remembered winter’s

      frigid-tin temperature.

      I no longer desired to write poems in the cemetery—

      near my father’s grave.

      There was no ache in my bones.

      When lifting the planter, I saw the bright

      epaulettes of the red winged blackbird.

      That Winter

      my mother and my father died in February. One that morning

      one that evening, four days, one hundred four hours apart. Seasons

      later I drive through the old neighborhood past my childhood

      friend’s brick house with picket fence, our houses back to back.

      Years ago I’d babysit his sister on weekend afternoons. Patiently wait

      for him in his modern ’60s kitchen, as he clicked his bronze toy gun

      between bites. A slow-moving, prolonged lunch, one bite at a time,

      one click then another. Grilled cheese. Bite, click. With bacon, click,

      click. Or peanut butter on toast, click, bite, click. Tried to convince

      myself I held no grudge about his caterpillar style. His mother

      brushed him along like an autumn fly, pushing swigs of Boscoe

      milk to wash the meal down quickly. By mid-afternoon—

      we’d take our places outdoors behind rough columns of trees,

      play tag beneath the sky with its apricot glow, mortality weighing

      on the leaf-spare branches. In the wide back yard, heaps

      of maple leaves, stiff azalea and hundreds of acorns. Abandoned

      Adirondack chairs, air enriched with pungent smoldering

      leaves & wood burning fireplaces. Darting between the willows,

      Eric shrieked, You Jane me Tarzan, and I chanted, Eeeee-Ah-Key.

      Giggles & that unforgettable toothy grin from his young sister,

      as she chased us in concentric circles between neighbor’s yards,

      the October air turning crisp like white transparent apples,

      the slanted sky against the day’s final hour. If only I could

      speak to the trees and the shadows of actors.

      If only my childhood contained me like the heavenly bodies

      protected by stars. I wish I could say I didn’t see nightfall

      coming or that I wasn’t so lost in a retinue of dreams.

      I wish I could say I’m not shocked. But I stuff my pillows

      with lavender flowers so I can sleep through winter.

      The Return

      The house

      on Jefferson Avenue—

      1939 mortar, brick, stone

      pearly wood shutters

      my parents’ bedroom window—

      crystal leaded glass,

      childhood’s diamonds.

      The door

      once sturdy—

      painted white

      three cape cod windows

      brass numbers—

      faded and splintered

      My kindred

      their days dust—

      spent

      like dried sunflowers.

      I roam through rooms,

      hear my father’s words,

      a soft thunder,

      my mother calls my name,

      calls my name.

      First Day of School for the Teacher

      For Cheryl

      Twenty-first century business suit with

      eyelet white blouse—

      like the red-plaid dress & camel-hair

      coat you couldn’t wait to wear

      back in third grade. The marble notebook you

      carried close to your heart. Yellow sharpened

      pencils.

      Mother’s apron,

      the bread box, turkey sandwiches wrapped

      in waxed paper. Knee highs, penny loafers. School

      days—

      We are still there. Blue sky

      wider.

      San Diego Afternoon

      Mission Bay sea lions

      somersault over manmade barge—

      school’s out.

      The Contest

      His name was Joe—

      tall, with curly light brown hair

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