Another Morning on Earth

by Meryl Natchez

On the altar in the living room, pictures of my parents,

my brother at 40—one of the last photos—Larry’s parents,

my mother and her sisters on Atlantic City Boardwalk in the 30’s,

and Erwin, my mother’s last love, for the besotted, lively gaze

she turns on him, though I try to keep him

behind the flowers. Perhaps they watch me,

even watch over me. When I fell

and it was just bad enough

to put up railings and walk more slowly,

I felt they had given me a warning.

Or when the baby is here, or when we gather,

turkey or brisket or pot de crème, or an ordinary morning,

open newspaper or book or laptop, the ramekin of salt

on the table—there they are,

watching.

I change the flowers as they wilt,

alstroemerias, anemones, the last sweet peas,

because I want my dead to keep watching out for us,

for the children and grandchildren and beloved friends

in this chancy world where death lurks on the landing

or in the car, or microbes

or snipers or breast

or bone or stomach.

What do they think about the time I waste?

Such an abundance that I throw whole hours

into online Scrabble or Threes with the excuse that they

are a form of meditation,

because it’s hard to be here now,

now being a confused elixir

of sun and fog and email and bird shadow and superstition

and chicken feet and toast and news

and insatiable longing and I have to pee, a fusillade

of random moments that can converge

into a ravishing pattern,

which I have, from time to time and briefly, glimpsed.

But mostly I wander the planet with blinders on,

going somewhere fast.

I like to keep moving.

I like my time full.

And I like to believe that because

their photos look out from their niche

in the living room, they are present, and if

I keep a fresh parade of flowers on the altar

they will keep on keeping me

from harm.