I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I mark the page with my finger
flip the book closed
so I can study
the author photograph again.
I search Mary Oliver’s face for a clue
about what drew her attention
off to the side of the camera.
I open to the poem again
study the words on the page.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields…
I have learned to pay attention too.
All the time I’ve spent
combing this town
for every salvageable
piece of food
bottle of water
possible stick of firewood.
I pay attention to the weather
and the seasons
to what’s growing
what’s dying
how much daylight is left
in an afternoon.
If I didn’t pay attention
I would have
frozen or starved
to death
a long time ago.
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields…
I’ve been idle sometimes.
Have I been blessed?
I have certainly been lucky
not to have been injured or killed
to have survived this long alone
despite the fact that I’m only fifteen and
I should be thinking about dating and
homework and Friday night football games
not scavenging for food
and wondering if I’ll survive
another winter.
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Doesn’t everything die at last
Doesn’t everything die
too soon?
Oh my God.
I can’t believe this never occurred to me before.
Is it possible they haven’t returned because they didn’t survive?
Could they have died not knowing that I had been left behind?
Could they really have died not knowing that I had been left behind?
It makes sense.
As painful as it is to even think the thought
it explains
everything.
novacula Occami
Something must have happened to my parents.
Something did happen to my parents.
Otherwise they would have returned by now.
There is no scenario I can dream up
in which my parents discover I am missing
and don’t immediately come for me.
Even a foreign attack on the government
couldn’t stop them.
A quiet truth grows up from
the core of the earth and into
the core of my body.
I’m not sure how I know, but I do.
I even try to go back to
how I felt a few minutes ago.
Try to believe
they are out there
somewhere
coming for me.
But I can’t.
There is no doubt in my mind.
They are never coming back.
Nothing and Everything
The knowledge that my parents are dead
changes nothing about my daily life.
Winter is still coming and
I still have to prepare.
What has changed is my anxiety
and sense of urgency.
They are gone.
I used to worry about
wandering too far from the house
or missing a rescue party
but I don’t anymore.
I work hard during the day and
sleep well at night.
No more nightmares.
Sometimes I even sing.
It’s not that I don’t grieve the loss
of my family or feel the acute emptiness
of being so alone.
It’s just that my grief and loneliness
are no longer burdened by hope
that things will change.
I can’t control the future and
I’m powerless over everything
except what’s happening
right in front of me.
If rescue comes, it comes.
If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.
Even Still
I can still bathe
in the light of the moon
as it rises huge
and orange in the east
and in the
expanse of constellations
that spill across the sky
on a clear, cold night.
I can still marvel
at a hawk
soaring overhead
with a snake in its talons.
I am still here.
Reconciliation
(n.) the act of restoring to harmony; resolution; reunion
Wild and Precious
I’m officially in love
with Mary Oliver.
I envy the confidence
of her poems
and I draw strength
from the possibility
that I, too, might
one day understand
my place in
the natural world.
I am certain
that the question
she asks at the end of
“The Summer Day”
is intended just for me:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I don’t know
what might be in store
down the road
but I know I won’t
waste another day
agonizing over
what I can’t control.
I am going to make sure
my one wild and precious life
is spent living as fully and
completely as I can
and if that means living alone
with an aging rottweiler
and eating canned food
until I’m an old woman
so be it.
Blizzards
I have to dig a path for George to go out to pee.
Sometimes he just goes in the snow on the porch.
We stay warm by the woodstove.
The storms leave behind a sparkling world of ice.
The sun slices cold through the sharp blue and every tree
twig, stone, fence post is enshrined in glittery prisms.
George struggles on the slick glass sidewalk
but I push off and slide for several thrilling feet.
We play in the wintry beauty until I can’t feel my toes.
The sound of my laughter echoes up and down the street.
Spring Flowers
After months of cold
warm weather finally
subdues winter.
Green sprouts emerge
out of the dark, moist earth
and buds appear on branches.
In the front yard
the redbud tree explodes
into thousands of
tiny purple blossoms.
Daffodil and tulip bulbs
push their tenacious stems
up from the ground and
burst into boisterous colo
r.
Purple larkspur grow rogue
and tall from the cracks
in the middle of streets
and sidewalks.
Gaillardia bloom in red
and yellow clusters on
the mounds of rock and soil
that used to be the creek path.
Black-eyed Susans, purple
coneflowers, and multicolored
cosmos decorate alleys, yards
and vacant lots.
It seems the floodwaters scattered
more than debris and destruction.
They also sowed new seeds
in places where flowers
never used to grow.
New beginnings for the battered town.
New beginnings for my weary heart.
Summer Advice
As the days pass
and the light elongates
the temperatures reach upward
and I reach back
to the poets
to Mary Oliver’s summer
advice to fall down in the grass
though the grass in Millerville
grows riotously long
after so many seasons
with no tending.
I stroll through the fields
play with feeling idle and blessed
ponder my one wild and precious life
Could my life be any wilder?
Or more precious?
If Emily Dickinson’s hope
is a thing with feathers
then there are many
flocks of hope flying overhead
nesting noisily
in the trees and hedges
all around.
The beginning
of my fourth year
alone in this place
yet Mother Nature insists
on optimism.
Autumn Fruit
Plums fall to the earth in messy
piles of red and purple sweetness.
Apricots and peaches hang like
juicy jewels buzzing with bees.
Apples are so abundant their
branches bow all the way down
to the ground.
In the abandoned garden at
Millerville Elementary School
one enchanted apple tree yields
six astonishing varieties.
I am a fairy-tale princess picking
red, green, yellow, and blush-
colored apples from different limbs
of the same tree.
Teeth break skin. Tongue licks juice.
Shiver-pleasure ripples through me.
Fruit flesh in my mouth.
I eat my fill
and fill my pack.
Interlopers
George wakes up stiff and limping
so I leave him home and trek out alone.
I scavenge among the orchards behind the
retirement villas in my mother’s old neighborhood.
I load my backpack and am crossing the street
when a loud rumbling vibrates the ground.
I freeze, unable to translate the sound.
It’s my imagination. Has to be.
I close my eyes. Will the rumbling to stop.
But the sound isn’t in my head.
The whir and chop of a helicopter comes closer.
rescuedangerlootersinvaders?
Giant’s Boot
I drop my backpack.
Run as fast as I can
toward the side yard
of the nearest house.
Throw myself into
a cluster of spirea bushes.
Tuck down into the
smallest space possible.
A Chinook helicopter
materializes overhead.
Its great, gray body
blocks the sun.
Military? Friend or foe?
When I was little Dad teased me
when formations of Chinooks flew over.
I thought they looked like huge boots
with propellers at each end.
Dad made up stories about a careless giant
whose shoes kept flying off his feet.
Engine rumble continues.
Doesn’t recede.
I crawl to the front corner
of the house.
The helicopter hovers
over the lake
down past the end of
the street.
I backtrack around
to the backyard.
Skirt the deck. Climb over
the split-rail fence.
Hug the houses.
Keep ears and eyes
on the sky for
other helicopters.
Pick my way from
yard to yard toward
the end of the block
and the west side
of the lake park.
Stay low in the shadows.
Cut north toward
the wetlands preserve.
Scramble over the hill.
Drop and belly crawl
into the willow thickets
on the north lakeshore.
Sneak toward the water
and the sound of
the helicopter.
The Chinook hovers
above the lake.
Creates whitecaps
pulsing out in all directions.
Hangs there several minutes.
Rises up and flies over
the boathouse
on the southern shore.
Lowers down again.
Disappears out of sight.
Red dust clouds the air
and I know it landed
on the baseball diamond
behind the parking lot.
If these are looters
they are far more
sophisticated and prepared
than the men on trucks
years ago.
If they aren’t looters
this could mean rescue.
This could be the chance
I’ve been waiting for
all these lonely months
and years.
But they could also be invaders
from another country.
The imminent threat?
Maybe they are the reason
for the whole evacuation
in the first place?
My heart slams back and forth
almost as loud
as the helicopter.
I have to see what’s happening
without being seen.
Spy
The east end lake path
is the shortest
but wide open and exposed.
Visible to anyone.
Nowhere to hide.
And whoever’s on board
the chopper could just as easily
be coming down the trail
from either direction.
The last thing I want
is to walk straight
into someone
or something
unprepared.
My mind works faster
than my heart pounds.
Keep hidden
no matter what.
It’s my only advantage.
Can’t risk being seen
until I know
what I’m dealing with.
Stay deep in the willows.
Scramble along coyote paths.
Zigzag through thickets
toward the west end
of the lake.
The sound of the engine
cuts off.
I freeze.
Can’t hear anything
but water lapping
on the shore.
My own breathing.
One careful step at a time.
Aware of every sound I make.
Men’s voices coming closer.
Can’t discern what they say.
Voices grow louder
&nb
sp; then shift direction
and fade.
Count to fifty.
Creep to the edge
of the trail.
Peek out as the men turn
away from the lake
toward the east end
of the neighborhood.
Wait another moment.
Dash across the trail
into a stand of cottonwood trees.
And But
I will not let my fear of these unknown men
sabotage what might be my only chance at being saved
AND
I refuse to let my desperate hope for rescue
cloud my judgment and put myself in danger.
How many times have I been tested since the evacuation?
How much more will I have to endure?
Blizzards. Looters. Tornados. Dogs.
Injury. Fires. Floods.
Hunger. Fear.
And the deepest loneliness imaginable.
I have faced impossible obstacles.
Conquered every challenge thrown at me.
Whether these men offer friendship or threats
I can only keep George and myself safe if
I can figure out who they are
and what they’re doing in Millerville.
I am afraid of being discovered.
I am equally afraid of losing track
of where the men have gone.
The thought of being so close to other humans
only to be left behind again is nauseating
BUT
the possibility that they might pose a threat
or do me harm is downright terrifying.
From one moment to the next
I don’t know which is worse.
Flesh and Blood
follow the voices up the trail
into the neighborhood
keep to the shrubbery
move from shadow to shadow
stay within earshot
at the end of my mother’s block
peer around the corner
see them all huddled
in the middle of the street
their backs to me
unlike the looters, these men wear
matching jumpsuits, boots, and caps
they walk up the street
pause to look at burnt-out remains
of houses and cars
I watch
ready to run
at any moment
they stop at Mom’s ruined house
one of the men walks forward
shakes his head
pulls a handkerchief from his pocket
blows his nose
turns and
for the first time
I see his face
Her face.
My mother’s face looks out
from under the cap.
Her hair is cut short and
her eyes look exhausted
Alone Page 13