Link 2

Walking Through Deep Snow

In the middle of summer,
I step into hell,
Diane’s house. She is swirling
in the smoke of chemotherapy.
The blossom of her smile has faded.
Her sweet bald head gleams in the afternoon sun.
A few blond hairs peek out from her scalp
finer than a spider web.
Her pink ears are thin and translucent
like Grandma’s best bone china cup.
Her shorts and shirt are loose leaves around a brittle stalk.
She holds her honeycombed spine carefully erect,
a mismove could crumble her back.
I must eat my watermelon, she says quietly in the kitchen.
The morphine isn’t working; the pain is relentless.
I focus on her hollow pale blue eyes and listen.
I’m angry, really angry! She
murmurs.
I struggle with words to comfort
her.
It’s not fair, she says.
I can’t sleep at night, I might not wake up.
I’m afraid to sleep, she whispers.
I dreamed a machine came down from the sky
and cut my breast off.
There is a hungry look on her face.
Her eyes ask me for something I cannot give.
My heart grips, my stomach churns,
and I wish I could say, Let go.

Mary Ann Wehler

Bathing Mother

She sits on a chair to disrobe.
Her breasts slide into her stomach
while it folds over her pubis
like a closed window drape.

I lead her into the shower.
Free of shyness, she allows
me to lift her leg as if
it were a separate

entity. She holds the safety
bar. Her concentration
helps me raise the rest
of her body into the tub.

She rests on the bath stool.
I wash her back, neck, legs;
kneel to gently sponge
her ankles and feet. They

glisten with shiny taut skin.
Mother rules from her seat.
Give me the cloth, please.
hand me the soap. She

washes her breasts, nods
for help, so she can stand
to wash her genitals. Her
spirit still flies, her fractured

vertebrates tie her square
shape to the ground. I lay
in bed that night, remember
after the birth of a child,

being washed by the nurse.
I think of women past,
who washed their dead,
the rituals of life.

Mary Ann Wehler

Dance Naked
                                    for my husband

Your skin, your cheek, your eyes,
your fingers, your testicles, your penis,
your voice.
Don’t let
last night
be the final time
you enter me.
The phone doesn’t ring; the doctor should
have called with test results tonight.
I sit silent and wait, pretend
to read a book.

My father lost his erection
to cancer. They bought twin beds.
I lay on my dead father’s bed,
visited mom, thought,
What did you do? How did you stand it?
I don’t want to give
up the thrill of your hands
on my body.
So, we wait,
watch the Academy Awards.
The screen fills with breasts in skimpy dresses.
Demi Moore announces to the women of the world,
Dance naked for yourself.

Mary Ann Wehler

If Turtles Could Fly
                                               Every one should have a
turtle poem. For Mark Doty

The snapping turtle lived on the back porch in a large aluminum wash
tub.
My brother Jack fed him lettuce and carrots, hamburger and dog food.

Paving block shell, scratchy toenails, nose pointed like a spear; his
internal
compass never missed the direction of water when let out to exercise.

Jack explored the Detroit River, the woods, ravines and sand pits. I
walked
to Elayne Arndt’s Dance School, window shopped on Jefferson Avenue.

If I sat on the top wooden step and held a leaf of lettuce above the
turtle’s nose,
it clipped off bites with its razor teeth. I held the lettuce
carefully,

kept my distance. The week my father would die, I called Jack; he said
to keep
him posted. I was by the deathbed; it would be soon. He said, I hear
you.

I guess he didn’t want to say good-by. He flew down in time for the
funeral.
We stood outside my parents’ condo and caught twenty-one chameleons.

He smoked cigarettes one after another. His hunter eyes trained on the
bushes.
I held the jar, opened the lid when he caught one. What do people

have in common? With us it was plants and animals. We didn’t talk about
pain
or sadness, failure or fear. We didn’t do that.

There were baby hawks on the porch one summer. I don’t know where he
got
them. They were fed chopped meat. That’s how I felt when my brother

finally came down to Florida. Our father had already died. Jack got
drunk, he
did that then. You might be the oldest but I’m the head of the family

now. He said a lot of mean things. Mother always said they didn’t mean
it, Jack
and my Dad, when they used cruel words. Jack is sober now.

He tells me he loves me. He doesn’t have hawks or turtles; he collects
plants. He’s
lost his children and his wives and he’s sorry and alone, except

for the three hundred plants in his apartment. I remember a dog. I’m
not crazy
about dogs. It leaped at the front screen door when I was nine ready to

pounce on me as soon as I opened the door. He could put his front paws
on my
shoulder. He bit at my clothes, scratched my skin. He disappeared after
awhile.

2.

I don’t miss him. When Jack was a teenager, he owned a canoe with his
buddy.
They paddled across the Detroit River to Canada. He’d laugh when he told

how the canoe got caught in the wake of a freighter, those ships threw
out waves
that capsized their canoe. Jack and Fred hung onto the sides, almost
drowned.

That’s how life is sometimes. All you can do is hang onto the side and
hope you
stay alive. Turtles belong in water. People get in deep water all the
time,

sometimes they drown. Sometimes they wish they could drown. Sometimes
it’s
someone you care about that is coming up for the third time. Think
about it just

a word might keep them from going under. When Jack said he was the head
of the
family, I left the room. I was crying, because right then I didn’t have
a brother.

My sister-in-law followed me into the bedroom. She’s married to my baby
brother,
that’s another story. She gave me a pill. She said, Here this Valium
will help.

Imagine if you put that pill in water and grew a fond brother, like a
packet of crystal
in a science experiment. If you take those crystals out of the water
they crumble.

I didn’t swallow the pill. When I got home from the funeral I put that
pill in the bottom
drawer of my jewelry box. Occasionally an episode in my life is tragic.
I open

the drawer and look at the pill. I have a feather laying on the counter
in the bathroom. It belonged to a blue jay. It’s mine now. I keep it
there to remind myself that I can fly.

Mary Ann Wehler

Headquarters, Where Your Heart Is
                                    For my brother, Bill

Hello, calling Headquarters! This is Bill - Do you hear
me? Come in! Come in! At my parents’ farm, brother
Bill strung his walkie talkie from a blanket tent to the house,
a call to mother, Do you hear me? He played cars under

the dining room table, used the rungs for roads. The only
time I knew he existed was when I tripped over his toy
jeep in my heels. On my way to a dance or party, I’d
scream, Mom, if I break my neck, you’ll be sorry!

Last night, I talked to Mom, she’s 95. Every day’s call
starts with, How was your day, Mom? Her days are spent in bed.
She says, Not so good. Thank god, Bill had been there.
Bill’s 60 now. She starts to cry, tells me the washing

machine’s broken. I told him to cut off my nightgown. He
wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to say she lost control of her
bowels. He had to scrub the carpet. Mary Ann, he never
saw me naked before. He went to the Laundromat. I’m

wearing a diaper. What a mess! Her voice is shaky,
weak. I call the airline, get a reservation for as soon as
possible. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? I need to get
to Headquarters. It’s in Florida now. Mom, Mom, Mom…

Mary Ann Wehler

LOVE POEM

You’d been out of town, three
days. While you were gone, I
read Paul McCartney’s wife
died. They never slept apart.

I remember when I didn’t mind
your travels. This week I missed
you. Our daughter, thirty four,
has seven friends who’ve lost

their mothers. I reassured her,
said I’ll live to ninety. But when
you left this week, drove off in
your car, I missed you. If

tomorrow was my last day, I
would spend today with you.
Walk with you, tip wine, eat
supper, sleep in bed with you.

This week’s a hollow room,
I just married you, oh, that
was twenty years ago. This
week I missed you.

Mary Ann Wehler

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