On Mother’s Day
It’s been nearly fifty years but standing
at the grassy shore of Clarkson Pond
as sun sets fuchsia above still-budding maples,
I can hear you calling whip-poor-will
over and over. It was our ritual, though
there was never a response. I don’t think
you expected one. Those birds
from your childhood became silent ghosts
haunting Water’s Edge Apartments
on the opposite bank, that supposed proof
of prosperity in our town back then. But
this spring evening, there are seven cygnets
paddling behind their parents, and redear
sunfish snapping at whatever buzzes
the surface. The apartments have been
razed. There’s even talk of a preserve
since a young girl found a Blanding’s turtle
burrowed in the mud. I reach into
my coat pocket, rub the flat, smooth stone
I carry with me. Mother, there’s a secret
I never told you: if I should ever muster
eight skips in a row, you’d get your answer.
Evenings with Marsupial
I’m drinking my second Sam Adams Summer
Ale with a possum who’s in the lilac shrub
eating peanut butter I’ve spread thick
on the branches just for her. I say her, but
I don’t really know. She looks like she
could be a mother someday. This ritual
began when one night I saw her tumble
from my garage roof. I thought she may be sick,
in need of nursing. My eco-neighbor with
the approximate dreads said probably nuts
or something would be a good bet. Every now
and then the possum grunts a little. It could be
a burp, if possums burp. An expression of
marsupial satiation, I want to believe.
As dusk rolls in and I sip my beer I’m thinking
not only of possum dietary needs, but also ashes—
my father’s, even though he’s not dead yet.
The point is he will be, and he’s fixated
on cremation, wants to drift slowly down
the Squannacook some early April morning
when the water’s cooler than the air
and mist is rising. There’s a special spot
where Ted Williams, yes, the Splendid Splinter,
used to battle fish. The perfect place for ashes
to settle, according to my father. He’s adamant
that his voyage should transpire as baseball season
starts and hungry trout begin to poke up through
the surface. The problem is: where will I keep
the ashes if, God forbid, he passes early? Or
maybe I should say late. I mean, for example,
May, the worst-case scenario logistically. Should
ashes be in plain sight or a basement corner?
Possums don’t have brain cells wired to ponder
afterlives or worship long-gone batting champs.
The humid air’s turned dense with moths
and mosquitoes. The possum doesn’t mind.
At first, she used to hiss at me when I flicked
my Bic to set curly citronella sticks
smoking. Not anymore. She simply keeps
licking the lilac branches, small eyes glowing
brightly in the now dark night. I like that.
Richard Jordan’s poems appear or are forthcoming in Terrain, Cider Press Review, Connecticut River Review, Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, Gargoyle Magazine, Sugar House Review, Tar River Poetry, South Florida Poetry Journal and elsewhere. His debut chapbook, The Squannacook at Dawn, won first place in the 2023 Poetry Box Chapbook Contest. He serves as an Associate Editor for Thimble Literary Magazine and lives in the Boston area where he works as a mathematician and data scientist.
facebook: /richard.jordan.7106
