he finally sees
his HMS Victory
in her dry dock bed
how victorious
twenty-five years we’ve waited
to take this long trip
always toting kids
or visiting our family
never alone time
the fish and chips speak
whispers of a turquoise sea
beckoning us: more
monumental start
to a pretty walking trip
of a London day
Tower Bridge tour
with views of the mighty Thames
where they built this town
an historic bar
rebuilt four centuries back
for beers in cellars
jet-lagged beginning
for a slow and easy day
goals: tea, nature, food
the Thames is perfect,
Chelsea is as sweet as pie,
London has orchids
with perfect planning
(cutting onions with bad knives)
we’ll eat cheap; sweet prize
with first flight canceled,
a frenzied drive across town
against Swift traffic
we made it in time
to a line wrapped three times round
the doomed terminal
we had just hours
after a year of planning
to catch the right plane
at the airport bar
post-security panic
we toasted our luck
he saw my new ‘do
the grins of relief returned
twenty-five years in
on board, luck joined us
with a whole row to ourselves
on “overbooked” flight
what a start to our
silver anniversary
purple as the sun
scene five from a marriage:
a broken spring equals a broken toaster
but not just any toaster
my bake-everything toaster
my savior to a shitty oven
my air fryer
my baker of brownies and pies
my upper-class kitchen in my middle-class house
i asked if he *thought*
it could be opened up and fixed
and before i’d moved the laundry
from the washer to the dryer,
he had the drill out.
you’ll never find this
i want to tell the world
my daughters
my soul at age nineteen when he walked
so uncertainly
into Pete’s Kitchen
but i did.
i found the man who’d drill a toaster
on a hellish Thursday
a Thursday dripping with tears and self-doubt
just another scene
from a marriage that works.
it's not romantic
and yet it's so romantic
i garden. he builds
Here I am at home,
and he tells me not to take a pic,
that “it’s only an egg”
though a moment ago he said,
“we better move her or she’ll overcook”
and like precious cargo
he slides her onto the plate
still in his uniform
at the end of a long day.
a long day for a teacher–
for a human–
he sent me a text three-quarters into third period,
almost lunch.
“Two staff members shot at East High.”
three miles from my school
three million bullets into my heart
three months into 2023.
it’s only an egg.
it’s only a threat.
it’s only a gun.
so carefully, he cooks the sausage
(in a separate pan ’cause I won’t eat it)
Scene Three from a Marriage.
the marriage he allows me
where I can take this pic against protests
and write a poem that’s not a haiku
and wrap my arms in the love
that the boy with the gun didn’t have.
and only you,
you standing there tomorrow morning with me,
in front of my Newcomers,
in front of this American high school,
can feel that love bleeding through
through
through–
the love for that burst yolk,
that perfect yellow yolk–
the love the boy with the gun didn’t have.
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