April 30, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

The night is shiny
in its coldness. Ice glimmers
upon pink tulips

in city gardens.
Is it nearly May? I am
wrapped Eskimo-like,

on my way to hear
Yevtushenko read. In cow
skin coat and fur hat

I trudge to Faneuil Hall.
The air is familiar, wet
and unforgiving.

Why do I stay here?
Warmer parts of the country
celebrate spring now,

somewhere leafy trees
and redbuds lighten the roads.
Why do I stay here?

My nose is so cold.
I walk into the Hall, sit,
and keep on my coat.

April thirtieth,
In Boston, Massachusetts,
Yevtushenko says:

“Thank you for coming.
Welcome to Siberia.
I feel so at home.”

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April 29, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

wink–
my loose change
in his guitar case

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April 28, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

Waking tired
from an uneven sleep
I see reminders cast
about like laundry
with pockets that hide
treasures
another person would describe
as trash: a screw,
a metal ring, a note with not one
but two phone numbers, home and cell.
Even before
I grope for my glasses
the sun spotlights
emptiness
and I think of placing my head
in another direction,
as if facing east will comfort me.
Turning around,
making the covers right,
my head drops down in a sleep
that would be described
as blessed
by someone else
looking in on the scene.

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April 27, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

A woman waits
for the light to change—
the top of a box
closing in as she walks
past a line of cars

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April 26, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

Walking past the cubes at work, I hear Dorothy call me over. “Melanie, you should know this—is Mercury in retrograde?” Thinking in a flash about what little I do know about Roman gods I say, “I dunno. Why, are you having trouble communicating?” Dorothy raises both hands to her head. “Yes! I am not touching my computer again until I know whether Mercury is in retrograde. I need clearing!” She grabs a small, silver can off her desk and sprays a misty aura around her face and torso. Breathing it in, I see the bottle is labeled “Clearaway. Contains lavender and bergamot.”

“Well,” I say, walking toward the stairs. “Now I know where to come when I need clearing.” Dorothy calls, “Oh, no you don’t. This bottle is almost empty.”

retracing
its celestial steps–
forgetful messenger

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April 25, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

when drummers
write songs
they’re smacked
with wooden sticks
across taut skins
screamed out over

an ancestral
beat that’s never
as romantic
as the lead singer’s
love jingles to foreign
phone numbers

watch the bassist walk
all over them
they fall flat across
a lead guitarist’s strings
unloved melodies
incoherent as bruises

perhaps the rhythm
guitarist will save
these songs
she understands
a drummer’s steady need
the way he wants

to hear at least
one verse played out
across a sea of waves.

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April 24, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

(to get the full effect, 3-D glasses are needed to read this tanka).

dancing to the edge
we find a new fulcrum–
our hip bones touch
fingers intertwined, planets
twirl in their places

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April 23, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

headache–
left brain
on vacation

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April 22, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

on earth day
I arrange wild flowers
& write about myself
in the third person,
this comfortable distance

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April 21, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

Although plagued with financial difficulties, Thomas Jefferson retained ownership of
this natural rock formation from 1774 until his death 52 years later.

Here you look up
and you are six,
expecting

an answer from father.
Thomas Jefferson’s
word for this rising

stretch of stone
was sublime:
how the throat

can feel so full,
yet unable to speak.
Perhaps

he considered his father,
the surveyor,
cutting through Virginia,

mapping the earth’s
wonders. Then
coming home

with the warm air
to Shadwell,
to his growing daughters

and son: his face
rough as a cliff,
hands red and concealing

the season’s
first strawberries
as their gift.

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