IRENE SIPOS
Click headshot for bio
LEAVES
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Oh little girl when you
were my little girl for real
we would go and gather
armfuls of leaves, maples
especially, setting flame
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to sidewalks all around us, how
could we resist? We captured them
and brought them home to iron
and press between layers of crinkly
waxed paper to scatter on tables
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and tape on windows. Soon they would
crumble and disappear as you, darling, are
not with me today so I must collect yellow,
orange and red beauties to place in an envelope addressed to you three thousand miles away.
TIRED
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Sitting across the aisle
on the B train
I look at the row of weary faces
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various shapes, sizes, colors, ages,
a horizontal explication of what it means
to have woken many mornings
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to brave routine, to leave concerns at home
along with scattered laundry and unwashed
dishes to head for same/same at work.
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I picture each of you, one at a time. I try to
observe without you knowing and suddenly I
see round, soft faces, no creases in foreheads,
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no wrinkles like parentheses around eyes, no down
turned mouths, no slumped shoulders. I see the plump babies you once were. And with that, a rush of hoping
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that you were affectionately held on generous laps, that you were sung tender songs, that you were offered
a bowl of blueberries as initiation to the messy pleasures
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of this world. I hope that occasionally you reach back,
even if only briefly to recall your beginning self as a visitor new to the planet, unencumbered and dear.
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