Weather Channel
I’ll sit beside you, Mother, here,
in your closed den, sinking slowly into
beige ultra-suede, and, together,
we’ll watch the Weather Channel.
Above Atlantic waters: a whisked vortex,
whirling counterclockwise into the white
seed curl of embryo
whose open eye stares back
at space. No pathetic fallacy —
that king gone mad with grief fell
silent long ago. This is nothing
but the plot’s bright thread. Out
on the boardwalk, his T.V. hair blowing,
the weathercaster rattles off stats.
Behind him, nervous waves rise, crash.
We’re far from the front, but
your Filipina caregiver is playing it safe:
Recalling childhood’s typhoons,
she slides shut condo windows, fills buckets,
hunts down matches, candlesticks.
“Eleven hundred miles in diameter!”
“A Frankenstorm!” Between clips,
you watch the ads for Celebrex.
The mundane, too, holds you rapt.
“Look,” you say, “it’s sunny in Calgary;
raining in Saskatoon.” Repeating
bites your mind can grasp.
I’ll sit beside you, Mother, here,
in your closed den and, together,
we’ll talk about the weather.
Suspended for these few brief hours
as vapour in billowing cloud.
All the Time in the World
Will we go for a manicure in heaven?
Will we sit like this in deepening blue,
side by side at petite, lacquered tables,
above mute clouds, the highest jet?
We’ll have all the time in the world
in heaven. The Angels of Beauty
shall attend us, their hummingbird wings
invisible as they hover in mid thin air to paint
each of our nails a different hue. In heaven,
our nails won’t break nor our polish chip.
Our hands ever soft inside belled sleeves.
