Concentric

Bass grabs a surface fly. A circle, pink with highway light, marks the spot.

Pregnant

My friends are pregnant. Six of them, swollen like ripe fruit, like bruises, like something I don't understand and can't define. They wait, sitting or walking, keeping themselves busy with preparations for the hospital, the return.

I wait too. But my book-child is late, it doesn't push for birth like human children do. I don't feel the moving mechanism, the fair ride you can't get off. I have felt close to birth many times in the six-year gestation. But it's best that I kept it inside, let it grow more, get stronger. All my food, my sleep, my dreams feed this book-child. Maybe it has grown too big to birth, maybe I will be injured in the final push.

But I won't feel the pain my friends will feel, the violence between love and love. Instead, I will agonize over my choice: is it my time? Sometimes book-children can be called back, reformed, but not always. Sometimes the parent loses heart. Books are easier to abandon.

The real joy of the book-child is in the pregnancy, the hope, the work, the secrecy. The result is angular and sharp-edged, not fat-cheeked and big-eyed. The book can't love me back, but it can reflect me, even more clearly than a human child would. It won't have my eyes, but maybe my loves, my opinions, my desires.

A compromise, the most important one of my life. Are books enough? I don't know. With my friends, I wait.

Saturday Night

A tiny bar on South Street, walls painted red, white Christmas lights around a dark background behind the stage. The musicians are on the audience's level. Sticky tables with red glass candle holders. Stained-glass ceiling lights, red, gold and orange. Billy Martin, curly hair and beard, rumpled shirt, dark pants, stands in the center of the instruments, other musicians around him. He looks the same here as he does before thousands, concentration and movement, searching through his boxes of percussive instruments to find the right sound.

We share a Malibu and Coke, two of a crowd of twenty or so. As I listen, I feel a part of the city, of Saturday night. Above the streets, in and out of rooms and buildings, down alleys, on balconies.

I imagine the buildings, inhabited and not. The grocery store we went to earlier, with its packages of sliced cheese and capicola, chicken salad and pickles, now silent and dark. The art museum, galleries quiet, paintings and statues alone. My classrooms, lights off or on, chairs tucked beneath tables or not, boards haphazardly erased. The hospitals, bright with pockets of noise and quiet, miracles and tragedies. A grand dance hall now a 24-hour Rite-Aid. The high-ceilinged stations, travelers packed and ready to go.

I think of the subway lines running underground, dark and open until trains rush through to fill and light them. Damp, dripping, construction debris in the corners. Above the tunnels, the layers of the streets, asphalt and rock and brick.

The trains run over bridges. The Schuylkill reflects lights from the bridges' underarches. The Riverlink ferry runs passengers back and forth across the Delaware. The Love Park fountain, turned off, is a still blue pool with "No Swimming" stenciled in black on the bottom.

My students are drinking in dark basements, permanent marker X's on their hands. Wiping tables in smoky restaurants or having serious conversations with potential lovers under amber-colored streetlights. A few studying, jaded or shy, in pajama pants and sweatshirts, books, index cards, highlighters, colored pens spread out around them on the floor.

At the hospitals, women having babies, old men having heart attacks, people experiencing the best or worst news of their lives. Outside, a homeless man with too-bright eyes, asks, "can you spare a quarter? Two pennies?" Another stretches full-length on the sidewalk, head on his arms.

Tourists run up the lit Rocky steps, jumping up and down at the top and yelling, arms raised, feeling silly but doing it anyway. The night air is warm on bare arms.

Lights come up at the Broad Street theaters, the hum and shuffle of satisfied or unsatisfied crowds collecting themselves. Wind sweeps through trees at graveyards full of stones too worn-down to read or thick, rose-colored, polished. Bodies lie underground, ashes or bare bones or boxed-up somethings between bodies and skeletons.

In skinny row houses, round-faced kids stay up past their bedtimes watching the NBA playoffs next to mixing bowls of microwave popcorn. A bar full of patrons collectively yells, "De-troit Bas-ket-ball!"

I am connected to it, the food and the sports and the dark churches and the dark clubs and the cobblestones and the fountains and the paintings and the books and the music most of all. The music, right here, with barefoot Billy Martin hitting curved metal with drumsticks, part of a band a bar a street a city.

Lydia's Island #3

Taylor's "new" house Part 2

Taylor thinks about going upstairs, but it's too much. He feels overwhelmed. He has only ever lived at his mother's house. What's he supposed to do with his own place? He knows his friend Robbie will have some ideas, and he wishes he didn't have to tell him. But news travels so fast. Taylor won't be able to keep the secret from anyone. He knows Julie will want to move in with him. He doesn't want to live with her. He can't imagine her things, their things, mixed with the things that belonged to his grandparents. He feels a flash of anger at Lydia, then feels guilty. It was nice of her to give him the house. It's probably the most generous graduation present ever. And he is glad to have it, even if it feels like cheating, like skipping grades in school. He loves this house. It has been quiet and lonely for a long time, and he always hated to think of it that way. But he wants to keep it to himself. He doesn't want to have parties here with Robbie. He doesn't want Julie sleeping over. Where would they sleep? He has only ever slept on the couch. He doesn't remember being in his grandparents' room at all, and he's almost afraid of it. He feels suddenly very young, as young as he was when he was last here. He wants his mother. She'll know what to do. He gets up, feeling more settled. He'll go see his mother at work, and ask her for advice.

As he negotiates around the driveway's potholes, he's sorry to leave. The house already feels like his responsibility, if not yet his home.

Lydia's Island #2

Taylor's "new" House Part 1

The house sits on a hill, at the end of a long, rutted driveway. From the covered porch, Taylor can see the bay, and his grandmother's island. A patch of awkward phlox grows, tangled, in front of the house. Taylor remembers sitting on the porch with his grandmother, eating ice cream and watching storms over the bay, the clouds smudged like charcoal. Now one of the chains on the porch swing is broken. One end of the seat rests on the ground while the other swings in the breeze. The red cushion is faded to pink and losing filling. When Taylor lifts it up, the chain creaks and the seat sways. He can't find the hook it used to hang from, so he gives up for now.

The porch floorboards creak under Taylor's feet, and the far corner slopes into a rotted hole. He goes down the steps, walks a few giant steps away from the building to get some perspective. Grayish paint peels off the house like sunburned skin. In tall grass below the porch, Taylor finds the metal chime that makes the sound of the MDI buoy. It's rusty, but still sounds right, so he hangs it up in its old spot.

In the backyard, grass grows through the patio of red bricks. A plastic hummingbird feeder has cracked and yellowed, but still dangles from its metal stand.

The key to the back door is hidden above the door frame. Now Taylor's tall enough to reach it.

He goes through a narrow entryway crowded with blue metal snow shovel, open bag of salt, piles of newspaper tied with string. The entryway smells musty, and the carpet is peeling up from the bare wood floor. The kitchen is just as he remembers it. The last time he was here was the day his grandfather died and his grandmother left. He remembers squeezing into his spot in the breakfast nook and watching the people come and go. He especially remembers Stew Bunker coming in, Stew's tired face yellow from the overhead light. Stew pulled Taylor's uncle Cubby aside. Cubby, the oldest son, was the leader that day. Taylor couldn't hear what was said, because Stew spoke too low. What he remembers is that Cubby didn't crumple when he heard the news. He didn't put his hand to his mouth or turn away or even spit into the sink, something Taylor had seen men do before, when fed some news they couldn't keep down. Cubby just stood there, nodded once to Stew and shook his hand. Cubby looked at Taylor when he passed him, and his expression gave nothing away. But Taylor knew, from the finality of that handshake, that his grandfather was dead.

Now the kitchen is dim, the windows dirty from ten years of pollen, snow, ice, frost. Taylor stands in the center of the room, his head almost touching the overhead light. He pulls on the string, but the bulb has burned out. He doesn't open any of the cupboards or drawers, but he imagines his grandparents' brown plates with the flowers in the centers. He imagines knots of yoyo string in the junk drawer, remembers how his grandfather marveled at Taylor's patience with knots. Sometimes Taylor asked his grandfather to tie knots for him, big, matted, complicated ones, just for the pleasure of untying them.

Taylor walks through the seldom-used dining room. The dark wood table is still shiny, the placemats laid out in exactly the same spaces. Taylor half-expects to see the same food in the avocado-colored refrigerator, the labels reflecting the style of ten years ago. But he remembers his mother cleaning it out, later that night. He remembers the big black trash bag on the hard kitchen carpet, and his mother throwing out all the food, the bad along with the good. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so wasteful. Now it also strikes him as odd that his mother knew with such certainty. Not only was her father gone from this house, but her mother too.

On the living room walls hang framed cross stitch designs his mother made when she was in high school, about Taylor's age. A lighthouse. A fence with birds and vines. A fishing boat. The script on the prow says Lydia Lee, the name of his grandfather's boat.

His grandfather's records line up on white painted shelves around the TV, so thin he can barely see the titles. But he knows. Johnny Cash. Waylon Jennings. Willie Nelson. Flukes like Night Ranger and Kansas. Taylor's favorite song used to be "Carry on My Wayward Son." He remembers playing it over and over, sometimes five times in a row.

The couch is brown and white, woven polyester cushions in a dark wood frame. It was an impractical couch to sleep on because of the wooden arms, but Taylor remembers spending many nights there when his mother worked late. He remembers lying there before school, dreading the walk to the bus in the cold, and after school, watching the Dukes of Hazzard or Rosanne or whatever else was on. Sometimes Taylor watched his grandparents' movies. Ivanhoe. When Eagles Dare. Casablanca. He liked the leading men. Their grand pronouncements. Their echoing dialogue. Their strong jaws. Sometimes he imagined his father was like one of those men, but he knew better.

Now Taylor notices shelves of dusty paperbacks, the mystery novels his grandfather read all the time. Taylor remembers his grandfather's thick leather bookmark and the plain blue bar tattoo on his arm and the special meatballs he made on Christmas Eve. He remembers when he showed his grandparents the formal photo of his second grade class and his grandfather told him to write everyone's name on the back, because he would forget soon enough. Taylor couldn't imagine ever forgetting, and he also didn't know why he'd need to remember. But his grandfather was adamant. Still, Taylor hasn't done it yet.

Obscured

We were both feeling low tonight when we heard what sounded like cannon fire. We took the elevator to the roof of our building, where the noise was louder. We could only sometimes see the fireworks, which were mostly blocked from view by the Embassy Suites. After the finale, pink smoke rose around the building. We stood on the windy rooftop, looking over the lighted city, and felt better.

Puddleshore

Septa bus speeds through
a puddle. Wave crashes on
the sidewalk, recedes.

Afternoon Storm

Lightning crosses the sky from both sides and meets above the basilica.

On my left, the sky is a dull sulfur yellow. Dark clouds move quickly from left to right, toward pink cumulus piled above the Sheraton. The hail starts, peanut-sized chunks bouncing on the balcony. A cold breeze blows through the apartment, and I imagine the ice chunks cooling the fountain.

Then the sun comes through heavy rain, lighting half of the basilica's dome, one side of the gold cross on top. It lights the flags on the Parkway, and the trees look lit from within. The fountain steams like a cauldron.

I step out on the balcony in my socks, stepping around the ice and water, to check on the Cira building. I can see its lights, but not its form.

And then, just like that, the storm is over.

Cranes

Two red and white cranes like ships' masts against a light blue sky. Their rigging swings in the slight breeze.

Notebooks

(for the Autobiography Project)

My finished journals are in a fireproof box. The first stack is from when I was eleven. They’re little ring-bound memo books with shiny pink or purple covers, and I tried to fill each quickly so I could move on to the next. I kept each current notebook in a plastic pouch with my favorite kind of pen (pink, fine tip).

In high school, I wrote in larger book-bound journals. My grandmother gave me the first, which has a quilt-pattern cover and lined pastel pages. After I filled it I bought two others. Same brand, different quilts. When I couldn’t find any more of these, I used whatever my mom bought. Apples, kittens, a gold Egyptian print. These journals have love letters tucked in the front covers, along with swim meet programs and sleepover invitations.

In college, I wrote in regular 8½ by 11 notebooks so I could easily conceal them in class. I got in the habit of picking covers that reflected pop culture of the time. Pokémon. Spider-man. Spongebob.

My travel notebook for my after-college trip to Europe is a spiral-bound hardcover. It has a plastic cover that zips around it. Stickers from Switzerland, Berlin, Dublin, and Rome decorate the covers. I described all my meals in the back.

Now I always have at least three notebooks going. I have a large one for home. The pocket-sized notepad goes with me almost everywhere. I keep it in a zippered pencil case with my favorite kind of pen (black, gel). Just in case I’m somewhere without my backpack, I have an even smaller notebook in my wallet, along with a telescoping pen.

Notebook-writing is like exercise for me, a practiced movement I can relax into. I feel uneasy without a notebook around. I am a constant writer.

autobiographyproject.com

Train Trip Notes

Stack of boxcars, four or five high, ten wide. An abandoned brick warehouse with broken windows, lit inside by afternoon light. Marsh full of tall golden grasses. Rusty 50s truck, windshield smashed in. Blue sky with stripes of dark cloud. Sunlight reflected from train windows onto grass.

We pull into a station. "This is New York City," a mother tells her two children, reverently. "It doesn't look like it," says her little boy.

Artists' studios for rent in a warehouse outside Providence.

At Old Saybrook, a graveyard across the tracks. A cross made of pebbles with a larger stone on top. Dark blue ocean, light yellow grass. A swan makes its way through a harbor, unhurried. Black tree ridgeline against a pink and orange sky.

Orange letters on a dark bridge: Trenton Makes The World Takes. Then the Philadelphia skyline. Liberty One means almost home.

Phylum Genus Species

for Jason

Meet beneath the Hawthorne portrait.
Western Red Oak
Rhododendron.

Murder ballads,
yellowtail suns.
Blurred taxi skyline,
Tropical gum.

The best cat in the world.
"She is," he says. "I'm not joking."
Write cursive Fiji.
Leaf prints in concrete.

How many times has your heart been broken?
A shaft of light on red hair.
Theme: missed trains.
A door opens into light.

Hamper

All the submissions to Connie's press went into a rectangular basket with a lid and a handle. It sat in the hallway between kitchen and piano room. The lid was up and pressed against the wall when the basket was full.

Each visit, after I settled in and Connie read my latest pages, I went to the hamper and dug out the oldest submissions. Depending on how carefully we read, I made four or five trips to the hamper each session.

Once in a while we were too efficient and reached the bottom. The next week when I called to check in Connie would say, "well, I'm afraid we don't have much." And that meant we might not meet, or that we would sort her personal correspondence instead. But when I called after being away for a weekend or two, she would say, "the hamper's waiting for you. It's overflowing!"

At the funeral, Connie's son recognized me but couldn't figure out why. I told him that I worked for her.

"Oh, you're Beth! I have to talk to you about the basket."
The basket? It took me a minute to figure it out. It is a basket, I suppose, but it was always The Hamper to us.

Today I met with Connie's son. He lives in Philadelphia too, but he has been at his mother's house since she died. He brought the hamper with him on the bus. It had clothesline wrapped around it and tied into a stronger handle. It should have been strange to see it outside Connie's house, but it wasn't. It was just nice to see it. Connie's son and I went over submissions together. I explained the routine. We got all the way to the bottom. Tomorrow we will write letters. I don't know what will happen after that.