Walk Along the Edges
1
You are a tall oak.
You bring me through the wood,
strides unhurried,
to take on a faraway horizon
We walk through a field
framed in speckled rocks
to lay down among old old pines,
centuries of long exposed bark,
weathered and silent
A tar-blue sky takes our gazes
away from the sun,
and settles them into the thick brush
near a rusted fence
Shivering,
ascending,
and eternal,
you sway next to me as we head toward a stone bench resting on the highest point in the county
I tell you about the baby that is coming soon
I tell you to inhale.
2
Inhale chains of DNA, mitotic division, zygotes
Exhale the biology of what we have done under red pines, on rough wool blankets grinding into the earth.
Right now, I say,
I need you to walk,
along the edges,
and look up.
3
I have to go.
What about the baby?
What about it?
We’ll know if it’s mine right away.
This is true.
If it’s mine, I will do what’s right.
4
Today I made my old brother cry.
He called me while he was stuck in a parking lot waiting for a tow truck to jump start his car.
He wants to throw a reunion party.
All the brothers and sisters will come together,
“Com’on, we’ll all be there. We’ll lay our swords down at the door, and just be a family, like the one you always wanted. What are we gonna do, wait five more years? Please Sis — Please…”
My brother doesn’t know about the baby,
about things that happen in the woods
He stays inside, with remotes and wall-to-wall carpeting, and bathrooms long overdue for remodeling. He tries to loves me.
5
Outside the garage, I wait unseen by you
I watch your car at the end of the road
frozen at the stop sign.
I take off my clothes,
lay them out on the driveway
and close my eyes.
The headlights glare at my swollen belly.
Car door opens, footsteps on gravel.
You stop in front of me, I will not open my eyes
I will not exhale.
What about doing what is right?
I’m sorry, I just can’t.
Please forgive me, please,
you plead as you wrap me in your coat.
You are forgiven, and sent on your way
before my husband arrives home.
6
Even if tomorrow is Sunday
instead of Saturday.
Even if I accepted the idea of parallel universes.
Even if I counted the number of leaves fallen
since you left
It won’t make you mine.
Winter, Fall, Summer, you whispered,
I’ll be back before you know it.
What about Spring?
7
My sister doesn’t understand why
I am angry for five years
about some dumb old trees.
Old brother told her to call me
to clear things up before the reunion.
So what, little brother bought our old house
and cut down those trees.
What does that have to do with me?
I tunnel through an explanation,
unearthing tired ghosts.
Big red pines hovered over blue spruces,
and small dogwoods
that needed my tending and watering.
Out to do chores, I would yell
whenever the walls of the house
shook with our stepfather’s temper.
Objects, children, animals
— all things to him — things to be thrown around
like broken luggage.
Little brother cut down my safety
and no one thought to tell me.
See you at old brothers.
I threw the phone at the wall,
there was nothing else to say?
8
Atlas,
the suffering one,
is on my mind as I turn down the house.
Slow deep breaths from husband fill the room.
I slide along the wall to the guest bed and dream.
You are taking me and baby
in a canoe across a pond.
I need you to return.
You promised you would.
Don’t leave us here.
I mean it — Don’t!
Your biceps bulge and contract
as you paddle away to the other side,
your breath
hard and fast
ignoring that your love is my only relief.
9
The baby comes early.
Push honey, push.
Husband is reminding me — push.
Breathe, honey.
Get out. Now! Go!
Husband is confused.
He read the books and went to the class.
Why is she telling me to get out?
Nurse shrugs.
I’ll be outside if she wants me.
10
Sweet baby girl.
Look old brother,
look sister,
look little brother.
She is so beautiful.
She’s green, says old brother.
She has all her fingers and toes, says sister.
Her name is Red Pine, I say to little brother.
