NOW SHOWING: MARYLAND, LATE MARCH

You have this show memorized, (you who live in this deciduous region,)

And you know this feeling well. A week ago, the back stage was bare naked,

Everything could be seen through the spindly tree branches - cold reality in harsh light.

There might have been snow, it was certainly wet and chill,

Definitely nothing much to look at.

But not anymore -

Now the play opens, (you’d miss it if you didn’t already know what happens,)

First sunlight lengthening, then warmer daytime highs, always some amount of rain,

The magic of a tilting Earth works – crocus and grass shoots appear in the foot lights, downstage,

And early bloomers under spot lights - the pale cherry, yellow forsythia, white fluffy pear.

All the blossoms that had been hard-tight buds at all the branch ends

Are not anymore -

Now the stage changes, (seen from your seat in the middle back row,)

It swells with suspense, with a pregnant haze. Through opera glasses you can see

Yellow green tendrils on willow hanging down, rust green clusters on maple like baby spiders,

Powdery green pollen, glossy green buds, fuzzy green orbs, and feathery green leafkins,

All about to burst like fireworks into the show’s monstrous scene of green,

But not yet -

Now, (on cue, like you always do,) you wonder whether or not

You really remember what it’s like to be the audience to Maryland in late March,

When the smother of green leaves is about to engulf everything, and you wonder how soon

You will forget the bare naked view of the back stage. Now,

This is the feeling you know. It was Winter, and Summer is coming,

But

Not

Yet.

BAT AND BOYFRIEND GOT TO GO

by Lori Martin, June 2019

image: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/109423465919646159/

Shutting all the windows and doors now is pointless.
The bat is inside, and flap-banging itself on the ceiling.
One half of my brain is occupied with trying not to kill it
While I am swinging a broom, shooing it toward the window.

The other half, as it is these days, is occupied with you.
You are just like this bat. I want to shut you out of my heart,
But you are trapped in here, flap-banging around, bruising me.
Breaking things. I know that no broom can sweep you out.

The bat has found a spot on the ceiling out of my reach
And rests, claws like Velcro, holding on tight. Its sides heave
Rapidly, breath and heartbeat. But it is still. I put the broom away
And admire the tiny furry winged thing. Little head. Little ears.

Maybe this will happen with my memories of you, too. They will rest,
Find a safe spot to stick and stay. Will I be able then to study you,
Remember your beauty and brilliance and let go of what should have been?
I am angry. I miss you. You were wrong. I was wrong. Flap-bang.

Half my brain is thinking I might need to call someone to rescue the bat.
It really does need to go, no matter how many mosquitoes it eats. If it stays,
it will fly at my head and tangle in my hair, I just know it. But just as I
type, “bat removal” in the search bar, it lets go its clutch, and flies out.

The half of my brain not clinging to you knows to close the window now.