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4 Concertos 2

4 Concertos 2



|Views: 92|Likes:
Published by Robin Rule

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Published by: Robin Rule on May 19, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Four Concertos1.The weather finally moved from 106 degrees to a wandering sea wind coming slowlyinland thirty-two miles, seventeen as the raven flies. The passion flower trellis is covered by slim cool dragonflies, though walking by the trellis to admire any of it still givesreminder of the other side of the coin. The reek of death comes from under the porch, andit only took us a week to discover that‘s where the raccoon hid himself in his misery. Ifeel odd walking over death every time I go outside and yet, I continue to claim I'm notafraid of it. I know I'm afraid to leave my husband and grown children, because they haveall said they aren't ready to let me go yet; even the eldest son who continues to ignore mein his earnest attempt to invent everything, which he is indeed doing. He believes me aconstant, even as he has known from childhood the racy trips to the ER with the pounding heart. He trusts that because he doesn't want me to die, I shall not. And thesame is true with the youngest son. My husband, I know prays quietly and sometimesdesperately, "Not yet". There is little I can do about this. It is, I believe, why I love thesilver slipperiness of Greybird's strange poems. They are as sleek and tight as the tinyrobotic machine the doctors hid in a pocket they made between several muscles in myupper chest wall. Her poems are Medtronic-like and there is always a hushed piano played in the background as a young woman's voice measures out the syllables of her heart. That is exactly the description of my pacemaker and how I feel about it now.2.This is strange for me to be writing, because I am making a story out of something that isexactly the opposite truth. My pacemaker is running down. The pace is erratic often.Soon the doctors will replace the batteries, I was told a year ago. Just a few months ago Iwas told the technology is so improved that they have decided to replace the entire unit.The leads, which by this time have burrowed deep into my cardiac tissue, can no longer  be moved from where they lie embedded. It's like Davy Jones Locker down there. Thereare two long tubes, that are filled with electricity instead of water, but I can liken them towater if I want, because it's my body. At last. Even though the doctors go hither thither inside it whenever they want, they must ask my permission. They can't just do anythingthey want and tell me to be quiet while they are doing it. And my husband, I allow himin, because he desires me and I desire him. I allow him inside me or along the longstretch of my thigh to my ankle because he has asked permission and he has filled hishand with a lotion that smells exactly like flan. I am the remains of a sumptuous Mexicandinner and he moves my hair to lay across my belly in order to conjoin the lotion with theskin on the back of my thigh, warm from roasted chilies, from mole made from scratch.We have learned that Mexicans can make rice and beans a magical feast by the judicialuse of certain herbs and spices. Chocolate, cumin, coriander, and the delicate leaf of thecoriander.3.Two separate realities, one I imagine to be a warm sluggish sea wherein two long ropessway in the current of my beating blood and the other, the long length of my skin fromthigh to ankle supine on the sheets we have paid dear for because we wanted to knowhow it feels, the fucking on six hundred thread count. I sometimes hold objects in myhouse and say, "This was bought with that painting of a bird's nest tucked into the apronof a child's dress" or "This set of sheets Dan purchased with the syllables of TheMagdalene, a story he read in Sacramento. “I like to remember that Jacqueline Kennedyslept on similar sheets and then asked the White house maid to iron them before dinner. Iam in bed a lot when my heart beat cannot be measured with the musician's counter andso we like our sheets to be nice. Oh nice. We like to feel the velvety softness of thesesheets after nine or ten washings when Daniel leans me on my side and takes me. We like

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Sarita Baker-Brown added this note
robin. as perusualiamstunned.
cheryl_snell added this note
These concerti --wonderful sostenuto in the tone; delicacies of pianissimo. Your word choice and sonics produced a glissando up and down this reader's spine.
Shyam Adrift added this note
this is poetry, has a heartwarming feel, a write that touches the senses & the extra sensory. Cheers, Robin, I dunno about pacemakers but you got a warm lovely heart & bless Dan to appreciate the fact.
Carl F Maulbeck added this note
wow, robin, prose poetry at its finest-"I feel odd walking over death every time I go outside and yet, I continue to claim I'm notafraid of it"-"They can't just do anythingthey want and tell me to be quiet while they are doing it"-"sometimes the flowers are crushed into the sheets and then played with by a foolish cat"-"And the hoarse tik toc settles into the graceful form of a sonnet. Iambic"
Robin Rule added this note
Four Concertos IS finished. I don't know how it got published. but at least it is finished...
cheryl_snell liked this
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