Red Faced With A Swollen Eye

Here in that hole

I’ve fallen into–

am still falling

ceaselessly into–

are all the loves

I protect myself against–

the screeching child on a train,

the dog howling outside my neighbor’s door at night,

the red-faced old man beggar

with his swollen eyelid

who takes my money

and won’t shut up about

the cold front coming in

even as I try

unsuccessfully

to shut my car window

and it goes up and halfway down again.

Rain gusts in

along with his words, ”below freezing,”

and I try again–

pressing the button,

watching the window

move

up down

and again

up down

still trying

long after the light has changed

and I’m onto Memorial Boulevard

down

down,

rain gusting in,

his words staying with me,

that swollen shut eye

following me,

a sense of disgust,

wondering if the meager two bucks

I handed him

will go to drink,

more guilt

keeping him at bay

with my guiltypityrevulsion,

until

this morning

here he is

with me

in the abyss

and I am calling him” sir,”

noting our sameness.

I too talk about the weather,

wish my money doubled, tripled,

dread the cold winter,

shut one eye,

talk beyond what the other

wants to hear,

forcing my words

upon unwilling ears,

trying to open up something

in a world shut tight,

fight my own addictions–

sugar, work, chick lit, Wordle–

two humans

one morning

same planet

finding ourselves

in the abyss of connection

startled

awake.

The New Physics: An Exploration

Freed from the constraints of time and space

I remake history

and a cheer-filled childhood–

days swinging in my backyard.

I hit the apex and travel backward

buoyed by the wind.

One particular day of happiness

becomes a childhood of swinging

back

and forth.

I do not hear my father’s voice over dinner

feeding me fear in every forkful–

Global Warming!

Incurable Strains of Gonorrhea Found in Australia (or was it New Zealand?)!

The Devaluation of the Dollar!

My father delivered his happy headlines

and maniacally impassioned detailed explanations

for a six-year-old, eight-year-old, ten-year-old, twelve-year-old to grasp.

Now, defying all laws of time and space

and perhaps even gravity itself,

I pump my legs and swing upwards and back–

scrubbing out, first, the devaluation of the dollar–

pump and back, pump and swing–

then the incurable strains of gonorrhea–

pump swing pump swing–

and finally global warming, greenhouse gases, nuclear annihilation,

the burning out and dying of the sun.

Swing pump swing pump

Am I allowed to do this?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

All of it. I give myself permission to travel

back in time and space and swing and swing like I did when I was

three and five and maybe seven

until it is all transformed,

newly informed,

wiped clean by the swing pump swing pump swing—the giddy height,

the air carrying me as I fall back,

the arc, the reversal of the swing and my body as I pump,

the feeling of flying.

Kingfisher On A Bike

I do not know how this

uncommon kingfisher,

long-beaked, azure blue,

became trapped

in the grieving branches

of a dwarf ornamental weeping cherry tree.

I only know that by the time I enter the dreamscape

four men in robes frantically

break branches, snap twigs,

to free his tangled form.

They scurry and puzzle how to place him on the

elongated banana seat of a blue bicycle,

without further shattering his frame,

trying this way and that to balance his broken body,

his four-foot-long splintered tail.

They run, two to a side,

astride the bike, the bird.

Kingfisher, you are already half dead, fully aware,

iridescent and regal.

We all want

to hold onto your beauty

as if possession is even possible.

You remain

in the stillness of eternity

going nowhere.

Lisa Tener is the author of two nonfiction books on writing, which won multiple book awards including the Gold Nautilus. She co-authored a self-help book published by HCI and contributed to two creativity anthologies with Routledge. A book coach, she served on the faculty of Harvard Medical School’s CME writing/publishing course for thirteen years. Her articles are published on numerous writing blogs including Writers Digest, Jane Friedman’s Blog and Lisa’s own blog. Lisa minored in writing at MIT and studied poetry with Gjertrud Schnackenberg and Jean Valentine. She lives in Saunderstown, RI.

North of Oxford

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