© 2006 Mariel Boyarsky

my parents

my parents
did so many things the right way:

they married after college and grad
school, when my father had a steady job,
could afford the rent in the apartment,
and loved my mother.  she fed me
breastmilk, mushed carrots, cheerios.

they sent me to kindergarten, day
camp, violin lessons; they read to me
from The Hungry Caterpillar,
all the Dr. Suess books.  for me--

they pulled the sun up from its nest each
morning, and tucked it back in each dusk.

they set aside money for college, the
figures in the bank getting bigger
with each passing year.  they took
me to the doctor, kissed me
often, told me that they loved me.

my parents
did so many things the right way

they tugged hard
at the sun, looped its ropey golden harnesses
around their knuckles and pulled
with the strength
of love.

it is not their fault that shadows
lick at my heart.

River

Its language is of jeweled warblers and marsh bell
flowers,
who strip raindrops from the silver air.  Fish
push
their heads
beneath the sand and move their tails in psalm.
Mist grasps at tree branches and tugs at their
knots.


Every pull of water is made of parts--one
beginning,
and one ending that drips uncertainly from stone
to
stone.
Each river bend curves out before in.  This began
with
one small bead:
two hydrogens for every oxygen, two glassy eyes
for
each tail.

All work is property of Mariel Boyarsky.

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