At the Costco Food Court

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At a buck fifty, you won’t find a hot dog
that tastes as good. On one side
of the plastic picnic table topped with a Sabrett umbrella,
I eat mine with a thin line of yellow mustard.
On the other side, Mom’s has the deli mustard and sauerkraut.
“Mom, I’m different now,” I say mid chew,
apropos of nothing but needing to say it then.
I expected incredulity. She often thinks
I say crazy things and mostly I disagree with that
and sometimes I do say crazy things just for the fun of it.
At age fifty plus, I still take pleasure in that.
This time, though, I’m not so sure if what I’m saying is crazy or not.
Sometimes I barely recognize myself. So I look at her hard.
She keeps on chewing and I know she’s thinking
that the steps to our mother/daughter dance have changed.
These days, I call her on bullshit I used to let slide. Even her
mother-guilt has lost its mojo. I have no more buttons to push.
She nods her head in agreement.
“So you think so, too?” I say.
Mommy says, “Yes, but that’s a good thing, right, Pom?”
using the nickname she gave me when I was a little girl.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

The Known World, Part Two

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When God was briefing everyone
on the grand design,
I snuck off to the back room
to watch cartoons on T.V.
I caught up with the crowd
when it was time to invade the earth
but by then everyone else
seemed to know the pattern
that I’m still trying to figure out.
I can’t tell when I’m turning a corner
until I reach the intersection,
then I twist my ankle a little.
For every fact that someone is sure about
I have my doubts,
and for every answer I finally get
I can’t help but think
I should already have known.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

In search of cherry blossoms

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This spring has been a little chilly for us in New Jersey so our famed cherry blossoms still haven’t reached their peak bloom. But I visited Branch Brook Park in Newark anyway this morning after helping my mother run some errands. Branch Brook has the largest collection of cherry blossom trees in the U. S. but today in some spots, the display was a bit anemic …

IMG_1057IMG_1019Some trees, though not in full bloom, were lovely nonetheless …

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IMG_1096IMG_1022Yep, that’s my mom. She’s 87, which gives me a little hope for longevity.

Of course I had to throw in some random selfies …

IMG_1034My mom learned the word “selfie” while watching the recent Academy Awards, so she was happy to take some with me …

IMG_1043By the way, I just love the type of people who kindly offer to take pictures of you with your own camera. (Why do they do that, I can never be so bothered. Shame on me.)

IMG_1094Some out-of-townies asked us directions to the Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart, which was further than walking distance from where we were in the huge park at the time. I had to pass it on the way to driving my mom home, though, so I stopped to get a few shots for this post. It’s the fifth largest cathedral in the U.S.IMG_1112IMG_1105

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All photos by A. D. Joyce.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

The Passion

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It’s one thing to resurrect from the dead:
Hell, millions of people do that every morning.

The real miracle
is to die and walk among the living—
parched, hungry, full of holes,
tongue broken and white as chalk,
sun moon stars and earth
pressing against the small of your back—
and nobody notices a thing.

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©A. D. Joyce, 2014

 

Octogenarian

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I was the smallest girl in second grade
and Miss Perry, a clear-eyed
pretty bird of a teacher,
always picked me
to help her
with the little classroom chores.
I had a sister who had
more friends than I did and the other
was smarter. But every day
I would dream I was
the belle of the ball.
No matter what the weather,
I declared my life a holiday.
These memories often visit me
during the day, imagine that,
all these years later, life later,
all the joys and tragedies later.
At night, I worry about
the one breath that won’t return to me.
In the end, thoughts don’t die.

(Written for the “Midweek Motif” over at the Poets United blog. The prompt was titled “Holy Days and Holidays.”)

©A. D. Joyce, 2014