Gathering the shells from the
shore.
I hate the stories I tell myself
about my childhood and youth. You’re right to ask, Love—
why do I tell them?
why do I tell them?
Why is everything in the past so grim?—
the Ludlow Massacre;
all the cruel abuse that went on in families.
the Ludlow Massacre;
all the cruel abuse that went on in families.
The present too. Incredibly,
our country is succumbing to something like
1930’s-style xenophobic fascism.
our country is succumbing to something like
1930’s-style xenophobic fascism.
Dwelling on it will ruin the final years of our lives.
But there’ve been happy times too.
Why don’t I let myself remember those?
Why don’t I let myself remember those?
We remember the snowy evening,
I came to your doorwith my guitar and a two-litre bottle of Zinand never left, except to get my clothes and things.
We sang “The Little Orphan Girl”—
the Jean Richie version we both knew.
That sealed it.
the Jean Richie version we both knew.
That sealed it.
Time passed. We had our
daughters.
Our year in Berkeley, strolling
the Bamboo way
Our year in Berkeley, strolling
the Bamboo way
by Vista school, the Dog Poop way down Albany Hill,
and the Exercise way by the Bart tracks.
Happy days!
and the Exercise way by the Bart tracks.
Happy days!
Now, much nearer end than
beginning, Love, fearing
to lose our happiness along the way, we decide, without reason,
our future days will be happier still!
to lose our happiness along the way, we decide, without reason,
our future days will be happier still!
