Jeremy Cantor

her microscope (brass barrels) 
her short-wave radio (vacuum tubes) 
her slide rule (ivory-faced) 
her mechanical polar planimeter (does anyone still make those?) 
one copy of every journal her work appeared in 
 
books inscribed to her by most of the famous people in her field 
boots, butterflies, black and white photographs 
boxes of things I looked at for an hour 
but can't recall 
 
a monkey's skull studded all over with 
round silver ornaments like upholstery tacks 
 
sheet music for piano 
an oboe reed 
an mbira 
a djembe 
 
dictionaries in four languages 
novels in three 
poetry in two 
 
dust the agent missed when cleaning for the sale 
 
two shelves of journals 
with entries in two different hands 
except for the last volume 
with entries in hers only 
 
a wedding ring 
 
her underwear which of course 
she needed until the day she died 
but there was no one left who 
cared enough to get rid of it 
before the sale 
 
back at the car you said "Please, love— 
don't let that happen to me.” 

 “There is Nothing Like a Berkeley Estate Sale” originally appeared in the online magazine CULTURAL WEEKLY™, a project of NEXTECHO FOUNDATION™

Here's to the song you heard when you 
were falling in love but have forgotten 
the title and the tune and the lyrics 
so even if you fell in love to 
some other song you'll 
think this song is that song. 
 
Here's to the way your heart 
shunted your brain onto a side track 
and left it where you would have to go 
and find it and drive it back into town 
the next day or the next year or 
maybe not ever. 
 
Here's to the way the morning sun 
through the curtains on the kitchen window 
during breakfast the morning after 
suddenly made you think not of Vermeer 
but of Edward Hopper. 
 
Here's to the surface of the water that 
has already crossed into night trying to 
reflect the evening sky's indigo but instead 
showing you a color you have no name for 
that promises quiet if only you will 
slip beneath the surface past the point 
where you'll hear water lapping at your ears 
to where eyes closed or eyes open 
is all the same.  

“A Toast” originally appeared in the online magazine CULTURAL WEEKLY™, a project of NEXTECHO FOUNDATION™ 

it feels like the season’s last rain 
the last rain before the living sweet green 
 
on the hills turns first to the golden brown I love 
then to the grey brown I don’t understand 
 
the still night air encourages a cloud 
of the orange tree’s scent 
 
to come out of hiding, envelop the house, 
creeping even as far as my open window 
 
around the corner on the south wall 
if you stood by me you would not smell it 
 
they could not figure out how else to stop 
the little girl’s nosebleeds so they cauterized 
 
and left scar tissue covering the nerves 
now seventy years later I can count on one hand 
 
the number of things you can smell 
and that number does not include 
 
the smell of orange blossoms at night 
or the smell of the rain that is about to fall 

“What You Don’t Know” originally appeared in CAESURA (The Literary Journal of Poetry Center San Jose) Ascent || Descent