“EVENING COMES TO ROCKPORT”, “WHEN LOVE IS A FACT IN YOUR LIFE”, “NO WAY BACK”, and “LET US ALL SAY AMEN”
By Joanne Holdridge
EVENING COMES TO ROCKPORT
a long slow darkening
moving across the ocean’s surface
softening to shadow the rocks of the breakwater
edging out day as if it were a lover
you can’t bear to leave so you linger
in these moments between dusk and dark
kissing and kissing, touching with eyes, murmuring
goodbye as if these were the last moments
you’ll have and so are savoring
every last touch, eyelash, trace of sun
WHEN LOVE IS A FACT IN YOUR LIFE
you let a lot of little things slide
forget the exact details of your beloved’s face
while filling in with uncanny precision
what you know to be there
Love isn’t blind, only willing
to drive through long stormy nights
in a rusting orange Volkswagen Bug
with bad brakes and broken windshield wipers
squinting through the sleet splattered glass
resisting the urge to stop for coffee or Burger King
not wanting to waste even a few minutes
together, that you can’t get back
NO WAY BACK
When I read what I wrote last March or April
or probably anything prior to lockdown
3 weeks ago, it’s as if I’m reading a record
of lost times, no more likely to be restored
than Mame’s restaurant in Meredith, New Hampshire
and all those summers I worked there, Michelle
before she endured more rounds and beatings
from cancer than Rocky took from Apollo Creed
or my favorite pine tree that once towered
over route 104 and Lake Wickwas, twice blasted
by lightning split open down its charred trunk
still throat catchingly lovely
but as gone now as the Winnipesaukee
of my memory, cows grazing in green fields
scattered with yellow buttercups
on either side of the road into Center Harbor
Clifford waving from the doorway of his old shop
at the start of the Neck road after again fixing
my beloved piece of crap Toyota Tercel
Joshua’s gambled away fortune and our retirement
having a brother I could trust who wouldn’t sell
me out for less than four pieces of silver
lost is lost, gone as last winter’s snow
and the girl I once was
LET US ALL SAY AMEN
Now that I’ve graduated
from all that lady trouble
my grandmother used to call it
sotto voice, I don’t miss bleeding
the mess, bother, expense
feeling crappy or just plain
weird and off kilter for several days
most months, but oh how I miss
being cold and complaining
sometimes even when it wasn’t
all that cold inside or out
First we bleed, then we burn
and in between times we try
not to get pregnant or we really want
to be pregnant but have trouble
getting or staying that way
or we get pregnant and have a baby
we have to take care of alone
twenty-four hours a day for the next two decades
whether we live with our children’s fathers
or not while other people, lots & lots
of other people point out all the things
we’re doing wrong and how badly
our children are bound to turn out
due entirely to our less than perfect
mothering….is it any surprise
Betty White not only chose
not to have any kids herself
but is revered by mothers everywhere
for once observing that being a mom is hard
if it were easy, fathers would do it
Joanne Holdridge lives in Devens, MA, but spends her winters writing and skiing in New Hampshire. She has recently published poems in Atlanta Review, Coal City Review, and Illuminations. She has work forthcoming in Willow Review and has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize.
