Safer at Home

No one needs my help or time or conversation, so
I fall upon the bed, a scarf that's carelessly thrown
down and stays in place. I close my eyes and listen.
Two clocks are by the bed, both out of reach because
I only use my phone alarm to wake me up, and never
now. One clock sits silent on the desk, intimidated by
the wall clock overhead that loudly ticks the time.
The kitchen hums as dishes wash themselves,
Bradbury-esque. Two rooms away some people talk
on television. A brush is dropped. It's hot enough that
suddenly a blast of cool conditioned air blows
loudly, not quite reaching to the bed. The clang of something
in a drawer. The television stops. The front door opens, shuts.
I focus on my breath and stretch. I wonder if my ankle
bones would crack if forced to turn my foot in circles (yes).
A little sound is new inside my nose as sinuses unseen redecorate
their little rooms. Perhaps that's next. I've cleaned
out closets, pantries, written, drawn. I've talked to friends
too far away. I've cooked more awesome meals within
the week than in the last few months, watched more TV
and washed my hands and exercised. My stomach
gurgles, asking for a snack (denied, this time). Outside,
a saw is whining and I try to match the tone without success.
The front door, followed by the television. I plan to beat
the COVID beat, survive -- I'm not as sure about that clock.
How many do we need in one room anyway? My phone
announces that I've got a message. Almost everything I hear
depends on power, on a cellphone tower, nothing much organic.
Birds were singing in the morning when the windows were still open
to the coolness. I'd like to fly away myself, social distance from the sky
where I could only hear the wind, earth's breath upon
my face as she waves her mighty arms and balances all life below.


(C) 2019, Ellen Gillette

Freedom

The pavement's been resurfaced
and repaired so many times without
a clue that deep below it are the roots
of something anyone would think
quite insignificant, of no real consequence
until it pushes up again, through sand
and gravel and the tar until it finds the
tiniest of openings and fiercely tackles
it until the window of fresh opportunity
becomes a crack, the crack becomes a door
back to the sky beneath a sun the little
plant -- though withered, covered up and
starved of rainfall -- knew that it would
find once more. So patiently it deals
with challenge and adjustments, knowing
there will never be a world in which its
perseverance fails, that there will never
be a world without the sun.

(c) 2020 Ellen Gillette

The Bends

I've got the bends.

Deep in the ocean of your presence
I had all the oxygen I needed in
just the way I wanted, all the warmth
and life and strength. The call back
to the surface came too soon.
I rose too quickly,
spanning time and pressures,
leaving you for what? And why?
Awareness of the answers
didn't hold me back or slow
me down, ascending to the surface
where the sun shone much too brightly.
Too much nitrogen inside my veins and vessels,
too much me still holding on
in bubbles of despair and separation.
I should have left more slowly --
kinder, gentler rise back to the harsh reality,
the waves and foam that are my life
without you. Dizzy thoughts, my joints complaining,
feverish attempt to tough it out.

I need a decompression chamber for my heart.

Or better yet, one day pull me back, back,
down to the depth of calm where irritating sounds
are swallowed by the vastness of the sea and we
can drift unfettered, singular, at peace so long
that gills will form upon my throat and I will be
a creature of the land no more. A foolish dream,
one fueled by the fever of the bends, no doubt.
A few more hours or a day and I'll adjust.
I'll find the oxygen I need the best I can
but yearning still for water.
And for you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

Gratitude (or Rhymed Couplet Plus)

I am grateful for the eyes that see into my soul,
the me I really am, the hopes and yes ma'am even dreams
and schemes, the best laid plans of mice and men and
motherhood, the tears, regrets and pettiness, the talents and
the tastes, the things I overthink and overthink, that interrupt
my sleep and peace, the me that is annoyed
at times, is put upon and stressed and sometimes also
close to being glorious. A goddess, little g, a queen.
I appreciate keen eyes that gaze into, beyond,
with steady gaze, unwaveringly loving and accepting
me for who they want study, understand, adore.
Not more, but also am I grateful for the blindness that cannot,
the glance in my direction that's devoid of any meaning
or affection, pairs of eyes that barely take the trouble
to acknowledge my existence or to register my presence
and importance on a scale of one to ten, for then I'm not distracted
from the one thing truly mattering. Such gratitude
for being seen, and loved, and understood unplanned,
by those we see and love and seek to really understand.

(c) 2019, Ellen Gillette

Jaguar

It sat inside a shed, unseen by most
and unprotected from the elements.
The paint had oxidized, the battery
was gone and so the owner never worried
that someone would steal what he himself
had no desire to use, repair, restore to greatness.
Late one afternoon, though, someone walking
by the property was lost in thought when
suddenly he glimpsed it there between
the house and trees, and almost gasped.
Such elegance, the sleekness of the lines
that told someone with knowledge that
this was a prize, a treasure! He approached
the house and rang the bell, inquired if
what he'd seen might be for sale. "It's of no use,"
the owner said, surprised,"too costly, too much
trouble, doesn't run and never will, as far as I'm\
concerned." Explaining that the car had been there
for so long, had been there when he bought the house,
he simply hadn't had the time or money or the inclination
to have the heap towed off for scrap. He wondered
at the interest of the man who'd stopped to ask.
It made him suddenly suspicious that a person
would place value on an object that he'd treated
with neglect, indifference, and contempt.
"Would you let me buy it?" asked the stranger, handing
out much more, the owner thought, than such a
wreck was worth. He managed to suppress a smile
and nodded when the stranger asked if he would let him
leave it in the shed until he'd finished working, even if
it took some time. And when the day arrived, the
proud new owner drove the car out of the shed,
the sunshine gleaming from its hood, the classic ornament
now polished, every piston oiled, the engine cleaned,
the seats as spotless as they'd ever been, the man
who hadn't had the vision shook his head, and wished
that he had recognized the treasure that he'd had.
He wasn't angry, though,or even sad, because now he had
an empty shed,and that was what he'd wanted all along.

(c) Ellen Gillette 2019

The Wedding

The bride is beautiful, as all brides are,

her flowing gown of white in this case, not a lie.

She’s known the groom forever and it almost hurts

to watch him standing there so tall and straight.

His eyes are fixed upon her face and he can only grin.

They’ve waited, unlike most, perhaps the only virgins left

within their demographic. They are sure their love

will be forever, certain everything will be as perfect

as their kisses and the flowers in her hair that rustle

gently in the breeze. They stand beneath the trees surrounded

by their families and friends who sit in Sunday best and fan

themselves a little with their hands. The afternoon’s as warm

as every heart that listens as the happy couple makes their promises,

the binding contract only broken if one dies. He’ll cherish her

and she, because that’s how they roll, she says she will obey.

No one will come between, no matter what they face,

they’ll always be united, two become one flesh,

(or will be very soon). The woman’s sitting by an in-law who, 

she knows, has understanding of what they’re up against,

the mindset not from Mars at all, but further, from another galaxy. 

They laugh about it now and then. She leans in to the other’s

shoulder, whispering so no one else will hear. “Do you think,” she asks, 

“that we should tell them just how hard it’s going to be?”

She chuckles but says nothing, and they sit there silently,

knowing that if anyone had warned them long ago when

they stood there in white (both lying, by the way) they

would have scoffed, too young, unformed, too confident

to ever think they’d change profoundly, growing

up into the women they are now, or that their husbands,

brothers from another world, would never think they should.


What started as a June assignment for the writers' group I attend turned into this poem. The theme was "weddings" and it developed from there.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

July 1st

It feels like June was never here,

as if the record of my life was scratched;

the needle jumped and now it is July.

June bled out slowly, in reality. My mind

goes back and plays the record at

another speed to slow it down, revisit

every moment of the early part with projects

filling time and then the phone call on the 10th

that stopped the clock, the calendar,

the calm that settled in for days and weeks,

that lulled me into thinking I was fine.

Decisions, deadlines, Daddy's death

and boxes of the memories he left behind,

photographs of people with no names,

of buildings without people, trees, flowers

more than anything as if their momentary

blooms had been a lesson that we didn't

even recognize the need to learn.

Smiling children who grew up with him

would sit and weep on padded pews and later, 

shovel dirt inside the hole beside my son. 

But that was then and now it is July, too soon

and yet, in many ways, not soon enough.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019