Sandra Hoben’s poetry has appeared in journals: Alaska Quarterly Review, Antioch Review, Partisan Review, Speechless: Online Poetry Magazine; Great River Review; and in the anthologies: Tangled Vines: A Collection of Mother & Daughter Poems; How Much Earth: The Fresno Poets; Prose Poems and Poetics from California; and Aspects of Robinson: Homage to Weldon Kees. Her book, The Letter C, is forthcoming from Tebot Bach’s Ash Tree Poetry Series.
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Power is a word
the meaning of which is beyond
human comprehension—Tolstoy
A wreath of steam,
garlic and bay, a young wine,
the blue flame flickering
about to go out. From the kitchen
I can see my son
kneeling in front of the TV
a bright towel pinned to his shirt,
a cape of Fire, Wind, Water & Earth.
He turns to me and asks,
Mommy, what is power?
Each time I make this dish
I have to flip to page 316, to check
the half-teaspoon of thyme,
the dozen small white onions.
But when it comes to power
it's on the tip of my tongue,
I can taste it as clearly as the stew
I'm about to season. Casually
I recite what I've memorized and believe.
Twelve years later, I’d feel the power
of the State, not by prison bars,
or draft card, late taxes, but simply
the public schools.
Or that my son would encounter
the faces of buildings,
so blank they seem lobotomized.
I had complete control,
the bourguignon perfect,
each potato a small half moon rising,
and the coins of carrots
slipping into a dark purse, while
the Road Runner was falling off
the cliff, flattening and re-inflating,
and even Bugs Bunny, having been shot,
lived to see another day.
My son stared at me a moment
then turned back to the screen,
accepting that he knew
what he didn’t know.
Gifts
The porchlight on at dusk,
the part-shepherd, part-wolf
arrives with his soft mouth,
his chin tucked to his chest.
A yellow warbler hit the back window,
a drop of blood on its beak. A gift of yellow,
and of death, and remembering.
*
Two small birds perched on the wicker chair.
Beneath the striped pillows, a sock
of twigs, twine, strands of calico fur.
Five tiny beaks, all facing south,
organized in line for recess. The dog lounged
on the deck, eyeing the neighbor’s
killer tabby, until the nest emptied
and the family floated up
to the thin branches of the plum.
*
A day in June, the last time,
I think, my husband and I lay
tangled together in the hammock,
my ears by his toes, like so many shells.
Dabbled light, sun and shade,
apple tree and cypress…
The dog pounced in the thicket
of braided jasmine, poet’s jasmine.
Fluttering, diving in circles
the adult towhees screaming—
do birds have broken hearts?
The male and the female
did what they could
to save their lost orphan,
who fell from the nest
and couldn’t be rescued.
Damp feathers and a heartbeat:
the dog revealed the secret
in the pink cave of his mouth.
*
But dear friend and companion
with your cascade of brown, gold and black locks,
gone now, somewhere among the stars.
I can imagine you
orbiting our small planet and taking it
into your generous mouth
and dropping it
at my feet.
The Brothers
We called them the twins: one,
full of light, the other stitched
a shadow to his jacket and slept in it.
Older than I, he prompted me to show off
my vocabulary to the babysitter, who
washed out my mouth with Ivory soap.
He offered me a planet, Neptune,
with its volatile lakes, its perfume of ammonia.
Brother, I wish you’d take off your shadow
and hang it casually on the coat tree.
Even though it’s cold, walk out under the stars.
There’s Orion with his silver belt. Try it on.
Your twin would love it.
Penelope
Penelope works out at the gym
at least three times a week.
Her trainer corrects her form,
arms parallel to shoulder, hold the pose,
a martini glass balanced on each elbow.
At dusk, she unravels the night.
Dressed in couture, the only question:
would she dine with Jagger or Elton John?
She found ways to sideswipe the news
of the war and its instruments.
The endless rumors that he was a pig,
the blurred photo of him
on a secluded island with a star.
She didn’t mind Ulysses
missing for seven years—she’d take ten,
or twenty, but she knows he’ll arrive
with his weapons and proof of his scars.
The years will go by too quickly.
She knows her son will soon grow
into a man, perhaps a man like his father.
She’ll allow her son to find his own way
and no longer weave her hands into his.