Cloud Report, 10/20/22

When you begin a poem in Paris, that phrase carries the weight of centuries, of cathedrals, of silk scarves trailing perfume as you chase a taxi through the dark, in the rain, laughing. But Paris is over there, unaware of its cachet. And I’m here, looking out the window, and already I feel everything must be better in Paris, the windowpane being French, the view of a quiet street lined with cars, so French and thus extraordinary. Ok. Back then my feet weren’t cold and my wrist didn’t ache. I wore my passport under my shirt, near my heart, in a little pouch my mother made. It was hidden and therefore ideal. And my dreams? Not of looking at clouds, familiar and strange, gray mounds lined with darker gray, a whole sky full, so heavy they’d crush the trees and the field and my pale house here at the edge, here where I ended up, if the sky would ever let them go.  

I Didn’t Want to Love the Dog   

I was tired. Even tired, I loved the baby and her way of kissing the air beside my ear. Meanwhile, trees turned red and yellow on a regular basis. We shopped for bread and beans and glitter and paint. The baby grew into a girl who begged for a dog and cried herself to sleep. Once she splashed in a lake the size of an ocean and searched for smooth black stones where water lapped the sand. No dog frolicked on shore. I spent my time on cooked carrots and crumpled band aids, gum stuck in the backpack zipper. I craved sleep. I did not crave another volatile creature, a messy one who’d chew my things and lie next to me by the fire. The girl made lists of names. I was tired of arguing. Next time at the lake, the girl had just visited college and wanted to swim past the buoys. The red flags flew. Her dog dug a hole in the sand, stuck his nose in, and sneezed. I tried to explain about the undertow, about caution and restraint, but like so many times, my words blew away in the wind. The girl stroked the dog’s silky ears and rubbed their noses together. Finally I said, Your dog could never make it that far.