Riding Past the Museum
of Natural History
and Seeing the Steps
I first took toward infidelity,
how far I descended.
My lover is history, has been
for some thirty-odd years, yet
I still remember my nervous
excitement. How unashamed
and unnaturally good
I felt. How beyond stupid
thinking I’d scale that high
unscathed, so sure I was just
stepping into my husband’s footprints
made long before I ever thought
of venturing to make hurt go
by going the ways of wayward
flesh — before I knew what I know
now: the crawl space one could reach
by carving out a niche in a marriage
preserved for the children’s sake.
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I Remember the Zinnias
Autumnal hues with bee-magnet centers.
In the planting, seeds of satisfaction
pearled Mother’s cheeks with perspiration,
made her glow head to toe. Every year,
zinnias fringed the pathway to our back door
by the kitchen.
Mother loved her zinnias, color-rich, profound
contrast to the dusty-rose brocade loveseat
and sofa, aqua cut-velvet of Father's chair—
each bound in clear-plastic fitted slipcovers
that, in summer, made the backs of our thighs
stick to our seats.
When her new dining set arrived, Mother, keen
it remain pristine, moved Lucky, my beloved
canary, from dining room to kitchen, to roost
inches from pot roasts simmering, fruit ripening,
a window nearby, rarely open. And, child I was,
I didn't protest on my bird’s behalf.
Weeks later, just home from school,
I learned that Lucky had died
and Mother had given his cage away.
She claimed to have buried him
(in her tomato patch) just feet from
her prized zinnias.
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If I Could Go Back to June 1939
After Sharon Old’s “I Go Back to May 1937”
I’d see my father relentless
in courtship of my mother,
hear him sweet talk her
into marriage,
lay her fears to rest.
I’d wake her, get her to
speak up, dig up her qualms,
make them both face up
to what it will take
to be loving parents.
I’d shake them
back to childhood,
beg them to be
the mother & father
they’d always wanted.
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Game Theory
She came to me and I thought
it was about the baby, whether
or not she should bathe him.
Instead, she said she had to go.
“That’s okay. What time will you
be back?” “No. You don’t understand.
I need to go for good. Nothing
will change my mind.”
I was floored, without
a clue. Her assurance
it wasn’t anything
I’d done, made no sense
until decades after I, too, fled,
having finally fathomed
my husband had fancied
that nanny fair game.
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Frank, Burger, Chop & Steak
Careful now, food foolery could keep
us from catching good Z’s, shock
the likes of Bo Peep, make countless sheep
flock to play beat the clock. Poppycock
you say? Fairytale? No way, for I’ve heard tell
of a spook-man in the moon who sees that cows fall
to raging disease: whole herds at first fat-
tened with, then stricken by foul feed he makes
of their felled kin. And if you don’t buy that
livestock, postmortem, are known to retaliate
posthaste with a slew of deadly chops, burgers
& steaks, then frankly, you’re off your rocker!
Copyright 2009 by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal. All riaghts reserved.
