Night Poem

The temperatures here in New England are the coldest I’ve seen in my mostly mid-Atlantic life. Eleven below zero last night, and supposed to be as cold or colder tonight, with wind chill down to 25 below. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what folks in Minnesota deal with, but I’m happy to be staying inside.

I had company for dinner last night, which is why I didn’t post, in addition to the fact that I’m stuck on Casey’s story, having written a couple more paragraphs and knowing where it’s going but not knowing quite how to get it there. We ate well: I stuffed puff pastry shells with the Crab Mornay I’d made — easy to make, rich, delicious; I use diced sweet red peppers and mushrooms in addition to the scallions, and dried chipotles instead of ground red pepper — and my companion contributed an excellent salad of mesclun greens, hot yellow peppers, thin-sliced radishes and carrots, black beans, and avocado. And we drank a lot of good wine and had a fine time.

But I’m still stuck with Casey, so I’ll offer here something in perhaps a similar spirit, as a day-late Friday non-dissertational. A small thing I’ve learned: as often and as closely as one reads a poem, there’s always something good — some further understanding and appreciation — to be gained by writing it out yourself.

Adolescence—II

Rita Dove

Although it is night, I sit in the bathroom, waiting.
Sweat prickles behind my knees, the baby-breasts are alert.
Venetian blinds slice up the moon; the tiles quiver in pale strips.

Then they come, the three seal men with eyes as round
As dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines.
They bring the scent of licorice. One sits in the washbowl,

One on the bathtub edge; one leans against the door.
“Can you feel it yet?” they whisper.
I don’t know what to say, again. They chuckle,

Patting their sleek bodies with their hands.
“Well, maybe next time.” And they rise,
Glittering like pools of ink under moonlight,

And vanish. I clutch at the ragged holes
They leave behind, here at the edge of darkness.
Night rests like a ball of fur on my tongue.

(from McClatchy, J. D., ed. The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry. New York: Vintage, 1990.)