Poems by Claire Scott

Memory's Job

At night memory sweeps the floors and walkways
pushing a large broom, carrying a plastic bag
shoulders slouched, feet shuffling, eyes down
sorting through the day's detritus
tossing apple peels, egg shells, a hangnail,
the sound of traffic, the commercial for Subaru
starring and storing significant events
the neighbor's sour look, a child's first tooth
the email from a friend with somber news
all saved in dreams, remembered at dawn
for a day, for a year, forever
the graveyard shift belongs to memory

Hey Listen

I thought you knew
I mean when you saw me push food around my plate
gather up a forkful and then put it down
stir soup without tasting
barely sip a glass of juice
I thought you knew
when you saw my jeans sag, my face grow gaunt
my refrigerator with only a jar of Dijon
no shopping list on the counter
I thought you knew when he didn't come home
when all that is left is a plastic bag with a gold ring,
hearing aids and a hospital bracelet
I thought you knew
I have no hunger left

No Cure

Lord, there is no cure for being a person
I should know I have spent thousands
on therapy, pilates, yoga, ayahuasca, tai chi
I have played with prayer beads like an abacus
callouses covering my thumbs

I spent years as a forest monk
in Thailand living on roots and silence
and still I yell at cars that stop at yellow lights
and still I don't leave the house on Friday the thirteenth
and still I dream of skulls like lanterns

floating on brackish lakes
I try I do try to be kind to the Comcast agent who speaks
Swahili or maybe Hindustani, but I fail
and fail, raise my voice, speak faster
why can't these people learn English

tomorrow and tomorrow I will start anew
maybe learn a little Spanish or Mandarin
or make lasagna for old Mr. Packer
Lord, I am made of earthmeat, tied with tangled hope
there is no cure for being a person