As If From Central Casting

Chemo, surgery, radiation, my hair
glazed with silver,
I'm once more on the open road,
traveling home from Boston.

Harvard Square, South Station,
up twenty concrete steps,

no escalator this time.

I'm clumping up the steps,
hoisting my copper suitcase,
struggling with each few steps when,
right on cue, as if from Central Casting,
a Sikh man, in lavender turban, gently
wafts my luggage to the landing.

At the landing, I thank him with "Sat Nam."
At this, his eyes brighten.
As I move on, I feel his gaze.

Our angels, where do they come from, and
how do they know when exactly to appear?

Visit From A Peacock

Dear Mummy lay dying in the jungle
amidst fronds, primordials,
birds of paradise in robes
of orange and red, flowering
jasmine, hibiscus, tuberose,
the waving leaves of banana trees.

Dear Mummy lay dying not far
from my brother, but in her own space.
On the morn of her death, I tried
to feed her, but she swallowed
only a spoon of applesauce.

A peacock slept outside her room,
always on the same branch
of the same tree. That morn,
he strode across her threshold spreading 

feathers of indigo and turquoise.
Circling, he screeched his song
and was gone.

When the hospice nurse arrived,
she bathed Mummy; then sweeping
her back and forth in the sheets,
alerted me that her last breaths
were drawing near.

I perched on the bed, holding Mummy.
At that indelible moment,
my brother appeared, grief wrinkled
onto his face.

For all the fury of her life,
Mummy left with radiance.
"Goodbye my sweetheart, my friend,"
I said. The peacock had also
managed to say his goodbye.

Many Morrows

I think I have many tomorrows,
to play the cards I've been dealt,
morrows to ride the waves,
to give love I've deeply felt.

But morrows may not be many,
and cards may be hoarded or spent,
and waves may break me asunder,
and love may be borrowed or lent.

I think I have many tomorrows,
but the morrows may not have me,
so I'll find joy in each flower,
and dance with the sun and the sea.

After

My breasts were two, but now just one,
I thought I might despair, but no,
Lopsided and lovely like a pun,
I look upon myself and glow.

I will not wake and be the same,
but am thrilled to be and thrive,
my hair is short, God made her claim,
most essential, I am alive.

Tiger at a Tea Party

"You can't take a tiger to a tea party."
"Swear that you won't tell anyone, not even God."  

I swore.

It was a tale of rescue, murder, escape,
too outlandish to be true.

Somehow, my son had come unhinged.
Time has passed; weeks, months -
It's now seven years since that day

when the moon somersaulted into the light of day,
and the sun climbed into bed with night.
And I have not been the same either.

The Kiwi Green of Spring

I am the kiwi green of spring,
I am the smile of hope lingering
with the wind in treetops mingling.

I am the cherry pink of spring,
I am deep delight dancing
beneath her bridal veil glancing.

I am the dogwood rose of spring,
I am uncanny kindness careening
against a rosy sky preening.

Forsythia

Yellow, yellow, yellow, so like the sun,
Forsythia, dazzling and ablaze,
I open to beauty as yet unsung,
Forsythia, you leave my heart a daze.