Martina Reisz Newberry
Air Travel
When you decided we would no longer
be “Us,” I was cool. I smiled, no tears,
no scenes.I was good. We hugged and I said,
“Be well and safe. Hope your dreams come true.”
You asked, “And now
what will you do?”
I said, “My desire is to be
illicit, wicked, a little
fearsome.”
He laughed, No, he said, that won’t be
you. You will spend your years as an
addict. You get high on shame. You’ll
never need heroin; your guilt
is even better because it’s
legal. You’ll nod the hours away
with it burning in your veins. You
are the center of your own wheel,
my girl, spokes radiating to
touch each error, every regret,
all sins—mortal and venial.
I thought back to an airplane trip:
Secured in my seat, surprised by
my lover–cleverly disguised,
pleased with himself at my wonder.
I waved goodbye to my husband
and children as we wheeled down the
concrete heading for somewhere in
Vermont.The sin of it blooming
much later, many years later.
Residency
Armed with sprigs of thyme,
out of my comfort zone and
way out of my depth—
all those names electrified,
charged with praise, awards,
and knowing...shall we say a
mansion and 400
acres crowded–if you get
my meaning–with huge
spirits and gods slam dancing
through faux elegant
meals where it was important
to know which table
to join. A gift, this stay at
a poet’s place...like
the gift a parent gives when
delivering stern
discipline. Oh mansion and
cottages, daunting,
prestigious, powerful...the
sweetest soul there was
a gardener who showed me
how to operate a backhoe.
After which, my poems soared.
