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Valentine's Day
by Barbara Rockman

I remember my father wrapping my mother
in his arms by the sink as if this was the cool drink
he wanted all day, how she didn't want the kids to see.
She'd give him her lips, but her arms stayed,
one hand on the rim of the dishwater, the other
clutched her apron.
A friend is dying
the way my father did,
the same decayed appetite, pain
but the remaining will
to work at what he loved. Day after day
he brought his body to the novel he believed in,
the same way a friend hefts the flat of seedlings
he insists on planting, and the French teacher
plans the student trip to chateau country
even as the verb for death conjugates itself
in his flesh. We don't want to walk
this narrowing trail.
When my husband's stroke
froze his vision, his hand limp,
I noticed my site weaken.
My hand could hardly grip the fork
and the morning paper blurred.
And my husband,
who would not recognize himself for weeks,
wanted simply to grip the box scores
for the World Series of that fall.
Valentine's Day,
and the rosy, snow-limned peaks I see
after snatching rolled news from the street
arch so like hearts, I believe
some god continues to remind us‐
the morning's buttered toast,
whine and drum of girls' complaint,
my family's backing down the drive‐
none of it certain. My bare feet bouncing
off cold concrete, the dog yelps,
and I'm waving, robe untied,
blowing kisses, both arms
flying from my sides.



First published: Women Becoming Poems  

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