Güd wrtr

(for Dr. Susan Lester, upon her retirement
as a veterinarian, Nevada City, California)

1. At age 9, sit in a circle on the floor with your
best friend next door and her younger sister
along with a cardboard box of month-old kittens.

2. Outside the biggish box, have a smaller box
of fresh kitty litter waiting.

3. Lift one kitten gently from one box
into the other.

4. Gently lift one of kitten’s front legs
and direct it to paw the gritty surface.

Note: Some kittens will resist this.
OK, most kittens. They will sniff.
Some may, as babies do, try to eat
the sandy stuff. Discourage this
by picking up kitten and gently
distracting it.

5. Return kitten to litter box. Try again.

6. Watch as kitten, quite on its own,
figures out, scratching sand or not,
that this is a place to go.

7. You and your de facto sisters heartily
congratulate kitten—and selves—
for a “job” well done.

All these years later, you recall that these
kitties, along with every pet you met,
were the ones who began to train you,

quite unaware, that you’d be spending
much of your adult life with kitties
and doggies, caring for thousands

of four-leggeds who, along with
their two-leggeds, are beyond
grateful to and for you.

Job well done, Dr. Sue.

Rising early, for me, to see
lamby clouds frolicking across
a field of soft blue overhead,
barely 70 degrees, and, stepping
outside to retrieve and refill water
and food bowls for those who stop by
for drinks and nibbles.

I am stunned to see this pleasantness
post-solstice, late June, when
the rays of Hades often hammer us
in northland of the great Central Valley
of this golden state.

All signs point to a perfect day,
and, before I can sink into gratitude,
I wade in the mucky pool of what’s
coming—the infernal heat and days
when the famous Delta breeze
has taken herself off to other parts.

But standing in the sunshine,
empty bowls in hand, looking east
over the tops of lanky sycamores
with more decades on them than mine,
I smile into the bright.

Soak it in, something in me whispers.
This day with writers gathered
around a table, with time later
to stand in the yard, hose in hand,
watering and marveling over
what’s growing. Maybe I’ll even
pluck one of the pearls of reddening
tomatoes strung from lacy strands.

This day, perfect, truly, of many
this summer to admire and cherish—
as I’m reminding myself to do—
with you, my beloved, at the end of it.

•••

(for Dickie)

Watching Juliet, the tomato plant,
grow tall and feathery of leaf,
I’ve also been charting the emergence
of her offspring, consulting Farmer Google—
“How do you know when homegrown
tomatoes are ripe?”—feeling a bit ditsy
because, duh, when they’re red, right?

Which is true, apparently, but also,
I learn, when they go glossy red
and come off easily in the hand.

One does today as I water,
bending to feel up a small cluster.
Woo-hoo! Tomato No. 1!

“Good job, honey!” I say to Juliet,
who, I’m pretty sure, blushes.

I gently hose this first harvest,
debating: to eat now or to save?
I’m tempted to pop it into my mouth,
relish the squish, but I pause to take
a photo, aware that if things continue
this way, I’ll become a bit blasé,
awash in small red ovals.

And though I know he already knows,
I say into the ether, “Tomato, Clifford!”
feeling his smile through the veil.

He grew them decades ago in this yard,
the man who’d pluck a ripe one fresh
off the vine, bring it into the kitchen
and, as I watched, rinse and cut it
into chunks, dropping one from his
dripping hand into my mouth, then
one into his, each of us grinning as
we savored the squish,

full of faith on those hot days
that felt like forever that there would
be more, so many more, for summers
and summers to come.

do rainbow flags hang over the bar.
They’re year-round décor, part of
the furniture with the pool table

and the barstools with concave
centers that have held untold
numbers of butts over the decades.

What stories those stools—
and backsides—could tell, even if
they weren’t there in 1969,

when the bar’s name
became synonymous with
long overdue resistance.

Where the sign hangs, framed,
in the foyer, perhaps the one
once nailed to the door:

This is a raided premises
Police Department
City of New York

The rainbow flags hang, though
no one there needs reminding,
as badges of freedom,

of people’s right to exist, again,
in this moment, having to,
again, insist on such a thing

on this day in June when
resistance again flares its
gorgeous mane, full of pride

in this modest little bar
in Greenwich Village
called the Stonewall Inn.

•••

On June 28, 1969, New York police raided the Stonewall Inn bar on the pretext that it was selling alcohol without a liquor license. It was the third raid in a row on a Greenwich Village gay bar—the second on the Stonewall in a week—and this time, outraged patrons didn’t disperse but gathered on the street and actively resisted police. The ensuing unrest lasted five days and inspired activism around the country. It was a galvanizing and symbolic event in the struggle for LGBTQ rights. On the first anniversary of the uprising, inaugural gay pride parades were held in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Chicago. They have continued annually around the world ever since.

The Stonewall Inn bar is now a national monument.

She walked in the nail salon
as I sat on my throne,
a kind young man at my feet,

and he and I both looked up
at the one so pregnant
who’d come for the same kind

of pampering my old feet were
gratefully receiving, thanks to
Eric’s masterful massage.

Two women came to stand
by her, one putting a gentle hand
over the babe inside: “How long?”

“A month,” said the mom-to-be.
And I smiled—about a month
away from my own birthday.

As she waddled to her own
throne, it hit me: This was you
68 summers ago, waiting for me.

She has your raven hair, this lady
in waiting, though her face is the color
of coffee with cream while yours

was vanilla milkshake. But I see you
as I have not, weighted with child
and impending responsibilities,

mixed with how-will-I-do-this?
fears, which every parent must have.
I wouldn’t know; I chickened out.

Now it’s June, and while today is
a mild one with a sweet breeze, heat
will come, and a baby. But now

one foot soaks in warm water as
one of her heavier-than-usual calves
is kneaded by a woman with strong

hands and her own children at home—
one who knows. And I wish that you
could’ve had pedicures in 1958—

it took you another half century
to allow such hands-on healing
masked as luxury.

We wish her well with this little
one, don’t we? An easy delivery,
if there is such a thing,

and a baby, unlike me, without
colic, who sleeps easily and long,
and a someone or two

with helping hands that can,
now and again, rub a mother’s
weary feet and calves, painting

pretty pink polka dots
on her toes to remind her
just how much she is loved.

•••

For the pregnant mamas, and the ones who were,
including mine. Thank you, Ma.

(an homage to acupuncture)

Been a minute, but please get in there
with those cat-whisker-thin needles
and loosen up that stuck qi,

unblock that energy, shine up those
meridians and let it flow, baby.
And while you’re at it, can you

jumpstart those pain-quelling
endorphins as I’m nicely wrapped
in a lovely, reclined meditation?

So that when, upon rising, I
find myself acu-stoned—
floating as if I’ve inhaled

the good stuff, which I have,
in a way, as relaxed as if after
a good massage, thinking

of Mom who used to float off
the table after every treatment,
finding her feet again and

me in the waiting room,
delivering her assessment:
“So gooooood.”

Not just because the monthly fee
is automatically snatched from my
checking account, and not simply

because a clean car runs better,
as my father used to say, and not
because it’s easy to drive through,

the driver’s front tire grabbed
by the conveyer, the car and I
pulled through the deluge,

which still makes me grin, as it did
when, in our youth, Dad found
the rare car wash that allowed

us to ride inside, the old Chevy
morphing into a spaceship,
my sister and I watching the deep

blues and fiery reds shimmy down
the windows like liquid star trails,
Dad echoing our ooh’s and ahh’s

as we three were transported
through the magic tunnel.
“Good as Disneyland, huh?”

he’d say, and we, who had
begun our lives an orange grove
away from the Magic Kingdom

had to admit that it was
pretty darn close. I still love
the car wash blues, baptizing

the four wheels that carry me
everywhere, the holy water of suds,
the benediction of the rinse

and the blesséd flap-flap of
lasagna-shaped chamois riding
the windshield. Not to mention

the miracle of emerging clean
and, with luck, a space to sidle
into where a long-nosed nozzle

will suck up the schmutz
on the floor mats, where a
green towel can wipe away

all manner of sins on windows,
Father grinning from his spot
in the firmament,

the car purring like a happy
cat soaking up the attention,
loving all that love.

(for Catherine O’Brien)

And there we sat on her sofa,
our dead husbands prowling
the room like phantom cats,

though she never knew mine,
and I never knew hers, drifting
in, as they do, as we chatted,

my photographer and her artist,
some of his paintings on the walls
wrapping their arms around us,

as if to say, “There, there, girls,
right here with you, you know.”
Because, as mine taught me

long ago, the veil between
their side and ours is so thin,
they pop in as soon as they

hear their names, or even
as we think of them,
bless them,

blessing us.

You thought you were done,
didn’t you? That after the most
difficult human in your life—

the one who made you, bore you,
raised you, challenged you
endlessly—had, as they say,

left the building, you’d passed
the final exam. Maybe not with an A,
though you think you deserve

one for effort—but passed it.
Learned a lot. Moving on.
Grateful. Really. Whew!

But no. There’s another who
regularly shows up in a place
where you do, and she exhibits

so many traits of the one who
made you, you half think that
the original model has whipped

this up just for you. This abrasive
know-it-all, always-has-a-comment,
needs-to-be-right one has you

weighing the pros and cons of
returning. But you adore others
here, enjoy their presence,

so you strap on your best
lovingkindness practice and
show up to, well, practice.

“May you be peaceful,” you mutter.
May you be well. May you be happy.
May you be free from suffering
and the causes of suffering.”

Forgetting, of course, that you
need to start with you:

“May I be peaceful,” you sigh.
May I be well. May I be happy.
May I be free from suffering
and the causes of suffering.”

(You hear one of the companion
spirits whisper, “I’ve got your
causes of suffering right here.”)

This is a test. This is only a test.
If this was a real emergency,
we’d let you know. Is it possible

that you might need more practice
in patience? Along with tolerance,
acceptance, water off a duck’s back,

no biggie, baby—you do you.
Because class is not yet dismissed.
Earth School is still in session.

We’re so glad to see how well
you’re taking notes. You get
an A+ for that.

next door sit on the front steps
each morning and, as I water
my flourishing garden, I hear

them giggling, cackling, snorting
over their daily brew.
They always make me smile.

The head witch, aka the Garden
Goddess Next Door, who often
dresses as a witch when she

hands out treats on Halloween,
leads the coven with her
sister and niece, discussing

all manner of things, I imagine,
though I cannot hear words.
I don’t want to. I live for

the laughter of the GGND
and her acolytes, good witches
all, the water from my

squirter backlit by morning,
freshening every thing,
just everything.