Long As You're Living
Come What May
Come May. Come what may.
The most significant thing today
first Monday in May
my wife six months pregnant with twins
says she's scared what we're getting ourselves into.
Like the time I moved into an apartment uptown
I mean way uptown, Bronx uptown, uptown
where you've never been
Cuban bomba in the airshafts
painted the apartment walls banana yellow and moved out the next day.
Lost the deposit.
A few years later moved right back to the same neighborhood,
stayed a decade.
I'm not--scared, that is--but they're not kicking my insides out, either.
First i swallowed spring and birds began
to sing in my hand. then i gulped an oak
and its root made my womb a somber garden.
then i swallowed a man and his book
and out came his cabin and cats, hickory smoke.
finally i asked sunlight its blessing, it nodded
wistfully and winked and so i was a mother.
Then i married him (spring) why we
never knew, it was cheaper than working and he
was beautiful (not a scratch on his body which
wasn't much) but had bad habits and was
always in the bed. we got along fine until
he took a chill, ran a fever and changed to summer.
The summer was romantic. late one night he came
in from the dark with the moon under one arm.
it wasn't enough that he had the sun in his pocket,
he had earth in his blood and a flood behind him
mud on his face and a rock for a ring.
Copyright 2017 by Robert Ronnow.