Offerings

 

Offerings

One gone morning
in that puttering Volkswagen
from shotgun seat you touched my hand:
“I think I’m pregnant — just now,”
because you could sense right away.
Two years later that boy is an adventure
each hour, each minute.

Christmas Eve, while washing dishes
I hear a screech. First instinct, first fright,
I check the boy. Here, napping.
Next I check the road. A dog hit by a car.
By the time I can run to it, ten more cars
have passed thump-thump, front-rear,
thump-thump. Ten times. Nobody stops.
I pull the black body off the road,
remove the collar, call the the owner.
He arrives in a classic MG, says
“It’s an expensive Labrador. Was.”
Corpse too large for the car’s trunk,
together we lift to the passenger seat.

I take a bath. Dog blood on my hands.
These tears could fill the tub.
Nobody stopped. The boy, safe.
You scrub my back.

Behind our cottage a branch fell off the pine,
an offering. That limb we set upright
and decorate with cookies, popcorn, cranberries.
In the bedroom you light candles.
Soft night. Soft light. Soft.

Christmas Day, from beneath the makeshift tree
we unwrap offerings. Gifts. Mostly simple,
home-made. He’s okay with them, not thrilled.

We drive to the beach. This the boy loves —
a giant sandbox with windswept driftwood,
stinky kelp like giant fettuccine. Foamy tongues
of surf advance, touch our toes, retreat.
Dogs play. Suddenly your eyes flicker.
Without a word you reach for my hand.
Just now. You can sense right away.
An offering, a gift, a blessing.

……

This was Christmas 1977. The boy is now 47, the girl who first sparked on the midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day is now 45. I wrote the poem only recently. Sometimes I’m slow to understand the events of my life. Through poetry, I find meanings. 

Driftwood photo by Katevn, tree branch photo by Joshua Choate