Recipe for Clearing Love Disasters Ladle scum off top. Reveal nourishing soup Filled with root vegetables, Fortifying broth. Steaming With strength and possibility. Feed to someone worthy. Yourself. With Our Loneliness Glistening, Like That Live-Oak Tree, Like Your Beloved River, Singing Walt Whitman, what is it? You, with butterflies in your beard, With saltwater in your beard From the brackish, bidirectional waters Of the River Hudson. Loneliness. I am lonely too, despite this interconnection. My hair dries in the sunshine as I write, As I move my pen across your reflection. They would rather read me than know me. They would rather this than my hair done pretty. We cannot help but wonder at the river's direction— You under, me over. The spiderweb showing Busy intricacies. Eccentric, the river making Its own web of waves and eddies. We flow. There is so much to know between you and me. That old, gnarled trunk, that smooth face, that eye. Federico, he knew you too—and what did he come to know? Afloat in that jasmine-scented boat to eternity. What is there to see? I'll wait here some more. I'm not ready for those shimmering waves, however heavenly. Like you, I am lonely. I said this before. I, under a tree, on shore. As a child, I picked blades of grass, watched the ants In single file do their soldiers' work, wished them no injury. Now I cross back to your time, soldiers, young men and boys. Our nation at civil war: startled and trenched. Division is lonely. You were a friend, a nurse, a confidant. The bedpan glinting like a fish. Cool cloth To wipe down brow and remaining limbs. What war does to us. Peace, even more alone. Then we sit in the tree's uneven shade And wonder why. My hair's all dry With salt and sun. The shade can't cover me. Tree's assortment of shadows bewilders me, It alone, and I lonely, inadequate in its inadequate shade. A blue sky free from cloud is no less lonely. We have all lived under the same shade, the same sky. That is why we can call on each other, to say, “Hey, you there, are you lonely like me?” Even when joyous, reunited with a friend a lover, We know the answer, dear Walt, New York or Louisiana. Or—here, I'll admit it—in California.
