[valnote: families that write poetry together, stay together]

Me and Her at the Lab
Lost, we rode the elevator forcing chatter
until we found the directory for the genetics lab,
and beside it, a delivery man with
a water cooler bottle thrown on his shoulder.
His worrying eyes locked on the door
about to close between us.
“You go ahead,” Jillian said. “We’re already late.”
He nodded, brushed past to lodge
in the hesitant space between a baby stroller, wheelchairs,
smell of sickness. “There goes a man having a bad day,” I said,
my giggles banging nervously against the walls
until her silence chased them away.
In the next car, as we reached the floor, we heard a crash,
something dribbling into the shaft. The doors opened
to water, glass, the delivery man smiling a broken smile
in an angry crowd and holding his hand
to stop the blood. Jillian gathered glass, tried to help;
I checked in at the desk, glad to have something to watch
other than the cancer patients eyeing our youth
and wholeness. The nurses came in a wave of white
and took the man to stitch up his hand. Doctors streamed out
with vacuums, brooms, like circus clowns, their white coats fluttering.
“I didn’t even know they made those water cooler bottles
out of glass anymore,” she said. “And in a hospital.”
We settled into our seats to wait
Soon, they’d be calling my name.

Soaking

I wanted to have dinner waiting
with flowers and candles when
you came home. I want
to tell you that you’re wanted
in such a way that it would reverberate
for days, weeks, years.
But I worked late, had to help
a student with her paper, hit
traffic on the way home. I bought
dinner from Fresh Market, instead,
arranged it on plates, bought flowers but forgot
candles. You were late, too,
so I cleaned the bathroom sink,
while the food cooled and turned
hard. The laundry is folded, the dishes
are in the machine. This
is love. Believe it. I’ll get candles
tomorrow.

Violins in the Bathroom
Sunday morning fades up slowly

and she’s picking out something from “Man of La Mancha,”

on violin in the bathroom, muffled by the creak of the fan,

serenading me while I lie in bed and try to think

of an excuse to just stay in and read.

Instead we throw on sweat pants, sandals,

and walk down to the bakery for muffins and tea

while it’s early and cool out. The day rises

through the dirty glass window,

and I want to ride my love out

like Rozinante in the sun—

so thin, I’m afraid she’d see its ribs.

I can’t speak to her the way I should,

though I’m old in many ways

and should know better, on this level.

I’m a boy, seeing giants in the parking lot—

the line of her throat, the dark center

in her eyes blinds me to all things. I have to act;

I have to say these things,

or, though she be sweet now,

someday, looking back on this silence

may make her crude as Dulcinea

wrestling pigs in the farm yard.

The People Below Us
could be studying the music they listen to

so loudly. They could be filling their minds,

not just their ears. They could be discussing

philosophy as they smoke pot on their balcony.

Maybe they have cancer, maybe the meds

keep them up late and the noise of living

is all that drowns out their dying. Or maybe

it’s me, drowning, studying. Maybe I am learning

something.