Hurry

From “The Kingdom of the Ordinary” by Marie Howe.
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.
….
Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,
Honey I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.
….
And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.
….
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The Season

when the smell of the oven holds up the walls
wet leaves tape sky to earth
I crawl inside music
its afghan knit
fringes to cover the backs of my hands.
I go underground
past the roots
the fertile soil
the wellsprings to
where rock sweats
but stays bound.
You think it’s easy
to choose health.
Yoga, sleep, a crisp afternoon run.
A matter of discipline.
A bit of prioritizing.
It should be easy
I can see that
with her smile from those footie pajamas
his Love you, mama.
Think of all the good things in your life, mama.
You could teach for me, mama—
I would pay you
four dollars a week.
You want to be connected to nature.
I’m straining against Saturn.
When sun sinks each autumn
I go with it.
Love you, Mama.
Think good, Mama.
For me, Mama.
How can melancholy
be moldable
and not respond to that?