Seeing You Have . . . (by W.D. Snodgrass)

Seeing You Have . . .
by W.D. Snodgrass
from Heart’s Needle (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1959)

Seeing you have a woman
Whose loves grow thick as the weeds
That keep songsparrows through the year,
Why are you envious of boys
Who prowl the streets all night in packs
So they are equal to the proud
Slender girls they fear?

She’s like the tall grass, common,
That sends roots, where it needs,
Six feet into the prairies.
Why do you teach yourself the loud
Hankering voices of blue jays
That quarrel branch by branch to peck
And spoil the bitter cherries?

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Sitting Outside (by W.D. Snodgrass)

Sitting Outside by W. D. Snodgrass
These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge of bulky redwood were purchased for my father twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard where he seldom went when he could still work and never had stayed long. His left arm in a sling, then lopped off, he smoked there or slept while the weather lasted, watched what cars passed, read stock reports, counted pills, then dozed again. I didn’t go there in those last weeks, sick of the delusions they still maintained, their talk of plans for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas once he’d recovered. Under our willows, this old set’s done well: we’ve sat with company, read or taken notes—although the arm rests get dry and splintery or wheels drop off so the whole frame’s weakened if it’s hauled across rough ground.  Of course the trees, too, may not last: leaves storm down, branches crack off, the riddled bark separates, then gets shed. I have a son, myself, with things to be looked after. I sometimes think since I’ve retired, sitting in the shade here and feeling the winds shift, I must have been filled with a child dread you could catch somebody’s dying if you got too close. And you can’t be too sure.

(c) 2006 BOA Editions, Ltd. – used by permission of the publisher



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