AFTER RETRIEVING YOUR PASSPORT
I LEFT ON THE PRINTER
On my way back to the airport, there—
in the clamor on the Walt Whitman Bridge
with the June Delaware stretched out beneath us
like a dark lazy dog—the taxi driver’s soft words
whisked over the seat, describing a trip to Africa
to visit his father and his ten wives
Right away, curiosity knocked out my worry
about missing the plane, and my mind jumped
to things so personal or rude
I could only sputter a few comments
which I hoped were neutral
At the terminal, as I raced through the mob to find you
I clearly saw that if you had ten wives, one of them
would surely have caught my passport mistake—
probably Wife Two or Three—both proper busybodies—
at the very least they would have insisted
on going back to the house with me
broadcasting about my age or tendency to forget things
There would be nonstop chatter in the taxi—
a repeat of the first airport trip
with its two vans and discussions and indecisions
about whose turn it was to sit beside you
Maybe lots would be drawn, or a calendar checked
Back in this life, we clicked into our seats
and taxied across the steaming runway
and when I told you about the husband and ten wives
I added that no matter who else sat on the other side of you—
this spot, the first spot, was guaranteed to me—
Wife Number One— no matter how careless I’d been
You smiled and didn’t argue
THE HOUSE ON BROWN STREET
I want to sit in that apartment
in a year I didn’t exist—
in the corner of that worn kitchen
behind the massive iron stove
within the aroma of simmering tomato sauce
I want the language to wash over me—
the voices of my grandmother and her family
their billows of un-sleek, second-hand Italian
their vowels puffing around the room
the tilt of their sentences aimed at the ceiling
I want to sit like my mother and her sister
within the rush of those buffeting words
inside the surge of emotions unchecked —
gruff, brazen, proud— their refusal to be drowned
Marie Gray Wise 