All That Autumn and Other Poems

Page 5

The Summer Bruce Died It was well over ninety every day, Heat bleaching the butterflies pale, Blackberries rotting in buckets on the porch. Bluebottle flies cluttered the walls, Bullied us into closing the blinds. You chopped heads of veined lettuce, unwound The long membranes webbing cooked eggs. Potatoes small as fists you peeled and sliced. That summer the burners were always reddening, The griddle was always spitting Like a cat gone mad. I don't remember Eating anything that summer except The ice I stuffed in a paper cup and sucked. Perched on the counter I beat eggs, floured cookie tins. And even at night when we had both given up On sleep, when the heaving engines of pick-ups Clicked off in driveways all down the block, And only a luna moth near the electric light Brimmed with life, even then I didn't badger you With talk. You were always grating Hard ricotta, mozzarella, parmesan, lugging sacks Of cherry tomatoes and red peppers from the pantry. When the morning paper banged the screen door We climbed the stairs, exhausted By the grasshopper trapped in the basement And the orioles nesting in the window fan, Tired of all the sounds we couldn't stop In the night. And I fell asleep Rubbing my wrists with ice.