“You don’t have to miss her. You know her, so why would you miss her?”
Evelyn, Barbara’s mum (Temple, Texas)

She left us for Queensland. I picture bright light, vast horizons,
like the place she grew up. A breath big enough
for a person of many gifts, a vast field for children to run in.
And a coastline bigger than all the dreams we had.
We were young when she left. All these years no other relative
came near to the closeness we felt, even before we were part
of the same family or shared the same name, so how can that be,
to live a long time without someone’s company, but still feel
aligned? I’m finding out now, with my own boy dead, that you
can walk down a road and know exactly what that other person
might like, line of high windows, slant of a roof,
you can wonder the same thoughts, carry similar questions
poking up through ripples of a stream where small fish
dart among dark gray stones, and nothing feels alone.

A Zen monk wearing a black robe and carrying a clipboard
asked if I was Edie. But I thought he said Eating. Not now, I said.

I’m sure with your mother gone,
everything feels rearranged,
said Rachel on Maui,
giving me a gift of a word
that has lasted nearly two years.
Where do I place my mama’s letters,
photographs, paintings,
half-baked crossword puzzles…
Finish them! Mama would say, but I cannot.

There was no worry then
that Rachel’s beautiful island would be
hit so hard, smoke clotting roads,
whole neighborhoods erased. To see your town
erupt in flames, in one day gone, everything
anyone knew, toppled.
How do we abide?

Before the fire, Rachel sent me a magical acorn
for protection.
It sits encased in its small transparent
home, by my bed.
On the wall, I stare at her daughters’
strong little faces.
Surely all the trees on her island bow
a little at the top now, in grief.
I’m still speaking to my mother
wherever I go, reminding her of
restaurants we never yet visited.
Sometimes she offers a nod.

My whole city became
a puzzle after she left,
then our son, within one year.
How could the sandwich be ripped
so asunder? I’m lost on
regular routes. We used to
describe ourselves as a 3 layer sandwich,
then a 4, when the little guy was born.

Now I’m the ragged scrap of lettuce
someone leaves on a plate.
Rachel, a man is hammering
down the road from your house.
He’ll be hammering for years. Maybe
at evening, sometimes, he sings.
And our little guy, who sees a giant skeleton
and says, “That’s us!” also says confidently,
“I’ve been with you from the beginning.”
I need to know
how everyone else goes on.

Addicted to simplicity
from very first day.

Ever hopeful ever growing
always asking why.

So many places
we haven’t seen yet.

You shouldn’t think much
when you’re 69.

The space around the poem
is best.

*

It’s the same day a little boy approaches a public blackboard titled
BEFORE I DIE I WANT TO…and writes, have a good life. Then
he signs his name, though no one else has.

I learn the word “biophilia” – a love of life and the living world,
an affinity of human beings for other life forms. This is it. The
word we’ve been needing for years. My sweet boy and I

bend to a large golden leaf, a snail. He pitches pebbles
toward the last small pool from yesterday’s rain. Oh,
Gaza Gaza Gaza. Every delicate thing disappearing,

natural kingdoms,
small systems,
the shoebox in which the kitten slept.


*
Who can sleep?
When a video for Queensland State of the Environment
pops up, I sit straight in my 4 a.m. bed.

How civilized Queensland must be!
They have categories, neat bubbles of care.
I want to take a little boy there.

Vast white beaches curving gracefully,
spouting whales off the coast, coral reefs, secret worlds,
mountains, meadows, grace without clutter.

Queensland, are you friends with Princeton, or even
Kingsville, Texas? If your name bears royalty, do you
naturally stand apart and above? Yes, we will bow.

It’s not our custom, but we need to change our customs.
How many have we hurt? Pious bombast, tax money.
Now is the Dark Ages and it’s very very dark.

One thing leads to too many. We’re too old to emigrate.
Only the brain runs away, dropping its packed satchel
into the sea, as my father did when he chose this land.

*
On Zoom with poets of Australia, a gentle biophilia was
binding us, sphere of words, wonders, bubbling
and humming, a natural place where no one rules,
no one is oppressed, syllables feel fluid,
we step into our days clothed in good guesses,
things might get better, we’ll find a miracle,
tell me nothing bad.
And if anyone makes a misstep, no worries,
because in fact, there aren’t any.
Language as builder, not destroyer.
Hope, no horror, nothing crushing us, ever,
even the grief that almost did.

Let’s feel free to pin words on the line together.
Let’s wash the dream we had when we were small,
and stitch it to a bigger dream. Let’s take a thought
gently from the drawer, smooth it on the table.
You help me, far-away friends, knowing you’re there inside
your calm eyes, your giant country. When Jake mentions
kambarang and I search the word, there’s only YES!
Wildflower season, season of birth. Not too late.
That’s what I was looking for. We have that here too.
Cure me, bathe me, take me in.
I’ll give you anything if you’ll share the pencil yam,
weeping paperbark, great morinda,
lady apple, and ruby saltbush.
What do you say?