Poems

by Carolee Sherwood

keeping house

I wrote a poem today,

left laundry in the dryer
and crumbs on the floor,
shushed the children,
and put the dog outside.

Housework
will hold for tomorrow.
Children
will stomp and whine
‘til they have me, but
poems will not wait.
They will not chatter and nag
blather or beg.
Quietly, poems wander off
for someone else to find.

And while I’ve been matching socks
and tending the stove,
other poets will write my poems.

I’ll bump into them, someday,
in other writers’ books.
I’ll recognize them, for sure.
They’ll speak what I feel
and know where I ache,
but they’ll belong
not to me.
They’ll touch me
in ways my lover cannot,
grab at my clothes
frantically
like lost children crying
for mothers all night.

But today, I listened
to the whispers,
rumors about a mother
abandoning her children,
husband, and flower beds,
driving with the cat on her lap,
following a paper trail—
crumpled clues the writer
in her had been leaving
for years.

It was just a poem,
of course. Today,
there’s dry cleaning to pick up,
a dishwasher to empty
and children to claim.

at the end of the day

when you look at him
and see dirty dishes in the sink
and dust on the dresser,
look again.

when he speaks to you
and you hear the baby fussing
and older kids fighting,
listen closer.

when he reaches for you
and you feel the weight of your day
and the work overwhelming,
don’t pull away.

turn to him.

seek from him
what housekeeping and
mothering and
working won’t give you.

allow his gaze
to bring red to your cheeks
like it did back when.

let his voice calm the babies
and your nerves.

accept his touch,
lean into his chest
and be close.

smile up at him and
remember—your hips
still swivel and
your lipstick’s not
just for dress.

the end

Thursday, July 22.
The day I learned
I will never be happy.

It was written out
for me in red
letters on a tiny strip
of paper inside a
fortune cookie.
My fortune cookie.

It said,
“Patience
is the key
to happiness.”

Patience?
Really?
Could it be?

I believed I could
find anything,
learn anything,
but
patience?

I might as well shove the
chop sticks in my eyes
and impale myself
with the bamboo skewer.

It’s all over.

One wish more

Before the babies
Came to me
Three in a row
Like wishes
Out of a
Genie’s bottle,
I despaired
I’d always be alone.

They’re with me,
Now, always.
And in my sleeping and
Waking hours,
I wonder when
I’ll ever really be
Alone again.

© Carolee Sherwood 2006

Carolee Sherwood is a writer and artist living in Southern Rensselaer County with her husband, their three young sons, and an assortment of pets.

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