elaine heveron

Magnetic Imaging

2011-12-23T20:14:00.000-08:00

Magnetic Imaging

HighlandHospital – December 23, 2011

Theneedle slides

In the hospital waiting room a man sits

With apinch, then through

Still as a zen master waiting for – what?

And themuscles flinch

Results? His wife? The TV Commercial toend?

Herapology, her smile

Someone opens a pack of peanut buttercrackers

Gentleas she peels back

Unable to squelch the screech of cellophanewrapper coming undone

Anothersharp, and prepares

Women and men wearing scrubs pull on theircoats

To tryagain, finger flicking

Call Merry Christmas across the hall

A veinbulging for her in invitation,

As darkness fills the only window

Thesecond needle slips in

to what light there was outside today

And asshe pulls back, blood fills

She checks the time,

the reservoir,she smiles

freshens her lipstick,

flushesthe vein with saline,

pulls another section of the Times

andhands him over

from her bag

to thetechnician,

re-folds his jacket,

“He’sall yours, now,”

Counts her blessings.

Twelve Years; Twenty Lines

2011-10-16T19:01:00.001-07:00

It wastwelve years yesterday

sincemy father passed away.

Lightbulbs flicker off and on; I

can’tsee him, but he’s not gone.

He lovedthe mysterious things

in life,the quiet and private jokes

with folks,the things we cannot see—

Twilightzone moments put that

twinklein his eye—the unexplainable

is whatmade him smile. He would

notice word-playand the deeper

humorin things, like The Far Side,

puns foundhere and there, or

humorous acts of God, the

journalisticjuxtaposition of

odditywith oddity, even a hint

of mystery. He was open, and

heopened his heart to me.

Lightbulbs flicker off and on;

Icannot see him, but he is not gone.

Switching Rooms

2011-10-15T19:09:00.000-07:00

So nowmy room is only half mine,

mybooks are in his room, the one

thatwill be mine. His books are

in theroom I’m in, where my

deskstill is, my closet jammed

withclothes, old stereo system

playingfavorite CD’s, paintings

ofgroups of women on the wall.

We arecleaning with micro-

fibercloths for each other, right

down tothe baseboards—and

I trynot to think about the next

move—theone after this, after

retirement,some years away.

Yet, I can’thelp but wonder

whenwill that big move will be—

the onewhere we downsize

or goto a senior care living—

center–do we have 12 years

morehere? Fifteen? Twenty?

Thenthe task will be more

donating,more discarding,

moreletting-go than we

seem tobe doing today.

Sweet Dreams

2011-10-14T20:17:00.000-07:00

It is quitelate;

notmuch to say--

noclever words

noplea, no case.

I knewyou once;

still thinkof you--

time oncewas spent

moreface to face.

The Troble with Reading Your Poems (with apologies to Billy Collins)

2011-10-13T19:02:00.000-07:00

It’s not that I don’ttrust you, but when I read your poems,

I wonder if that vase of fresh cut rosesyou describe

could be fake – couldbe, that is, an imaginary vase,

rather than one you actually see on yourtable.

Is there reallya gardenia-scented candle burning

in a darkening kitchen, as the sun sets over thepines outside?

Or are yousitting on the couch, curtains drawn, an old

lamp you have had forever burning instead?

I know that jarof jam you describe—(as you spread some

on a biscuit)—as home-made by your lover—(who tied

the lid withraffia) – might have come from a local grocery

store, made in large vats in afactory, sold everywhere.

You should seeoutside my window, Billy – theterraced

back yard – myneighbor, Nick, with his long-handled

hose is kindly watering my newly-planted hydrenga

tree, and his Black-eyed-Susans, ready to pop.

If I wrote apoem, I’d show you my soft new hammock,

so white and inviting beneath the walnuttree, my glass-

topped umbrella tableholding a tray of blackberry tea.

My favorite yellowfinch would stop by in his little black vest.

Iwouldn’t make this up, Billy Collins—I wouldn’t

even know how. I’d take a photo on my cell

phone and send it to you for proof, but

I don’t know how to do that either.

You will have totrust me.

Rearranging

2011-10-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

I have wantedfor ages to re-organize my books,

buthow? All the poetry together first? Allthe

religiousand spiritual next to psychology?

All theprize-winning novels and short story

collections? All the hard covers, then the

paperbacks?No, look--I am arranging my

bookslike a timeless dinner party, like

myfriend Michael who places CD’s of

mnextto other musicians he thinks

they mightlike to hang out with.

Thisway T.S. Elliot gets to meet Rumi

at his CocktailParty. Gabriel Garcia

Marquezand Haruki Murikami can talk

about Kafha on the Shore and Love in the

Time of Cholera. EarnestGaines can share

A Lesson BeforeDying withWilliam Faulkner,

As he Lays Dying. AnnieProulx can send her

Postcards to Carl Rogers Way of Being.

Ram Dasscan tell Joan Didion The Year of

Magical Thinking wasall Grist for theMill.

Amy Tanand Anita Daimant can have an

awakeningsharing One Hundred Secret

Scents inside The Red Tent. Michael Talbot

andBarbara Kingslover can dream Animal

Dreams in The Holographic Universe.

Oh,yes, this is the way to arrange. Mary

Oliverand Christina Adam—would so much

appreciateand honor Red Bird, since—you

know—AnySmall Thing Can Save You—

Somethingas small as re-arranging ones

booksand finding a brand new collection.

Cat Lovers Anonymous

2011-10-08T19:47:00.001-07:00

Mystiewants to thank everyone

who hascalled, written, sent her

a cardor posted a kind word on

Facebookon behalf of her and

herimproving health. The doctor

atCornell got her hooked on canned

food,something in which she had

shown noprevious interest. Now,

she canbe quite dramatic in the

way shescampers over to her bowls,

looksshocked when her wet food bowl

is empty,looks up at us, licks the already

cleanplate, looks back at us. What

can wedo but give her what she

wants—the poor, sweet, skinny little

baby wemissed so much and who

was soabandoned by us in the cold

darkisolated hospital at Cornell?

As BethBloom said, she knows

everysingle one of your buttons.

We havebeen had. We are being

played. We know it, we admit it

and we allowit. My name is

Elaine andI’m a catalcoholic.

Doing Time

2011-10-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

On ourway to Cornell’s Companion

AnimalHospital, we drive through

campusand the students are all

flowingsolo through the landscape.

Asclasses let out and change, everyone

is talking,yet no one is chatting with

theperson to their left. No one is

smilingat the person on their right.

Everyoneis looking down, or

staringup at the sky, gazing

intotheir mind’s eye at the

one whois somewhere else.

I can’thelp but wonder what

or whothey might be missing—

doingfour year’s time,

tied upon cell phones.

Solera

2011-10-02T18:54:00.000-07:00

Solera

After thefilm at the Cinema, he

asks Do you want to go home,

or…? She smiles, Or, what?—

thinking how it is, eight years

into our marriage, it’s still so

muchlike dating, on the weekend—

decidingto go one more place—

thenone more, before going home.

Theygrab the last table at Solera,

Heorders a Kava and a Cab;

thebartender nods, brings the

bubbly whiteto her, the red to him.

Theysmile and nod to the other

customers,happy the place is full

but notcrowded. They take in the

chillmusic, talk about the film, their

cat,plans for Sunday, mindlessly reading

thesigns across the street: Kitchen Bathroom

Additions, S&A Food Mart – Beer. Pop.Snacks.

Cigarettes. Jackson HewettTax Preparers.

Personal FX Hair Salon, Thread. Nothing fancy.

Downthe street is Sax Avenue, Mise En Place,

Theherb place that’s always closed, Head’sUp

HatStore, Open Face, Godiva’s vintage shop,

Hedonist Chocolate. Now that is fancy. It

doesnot matter. They are not in Cornhill,

not onPark Avenue, nor even Monroe.

They arein their own neighborhood—the

SouthWedge. It’s Saturday night and their

nextstop is home: only a few blocks away.

September 30th (for Dad)

2011-09-30T12:17:00.000-07:00

Thepark is shedding

itstree debris--

nutsand leaves,

twigsand seeds,

crunchingunder

ourfeet.

Skykeeps sweeping

thesun away

underits endless

tarpof gray.

Butaround the bend,

ina low swath

of grass,sea-lavender

crocus stand—

so sweetening

Autumn’sbig plans.

Day Two Without You

2011-09-29T19:36:00.001-07:00

Usually,when I am just about halfway

throughmy breakfast, you approach

the kitchen table, stop, look at me,

butbefore I can scoop you up and

set you in my lap, or offer you the

other chair, you scamp off toward

theliving room—glance back,

scamp,glance, scamp. This

is your not-so-subtle way

of telling me I have had ample

timewith my bagel, and that I

shouldbring my coffee with me

to Mystie’s Coffee Shop, a section

of the living room, which boasts a

Tiffanyblue square ceramic water

bowl,as well as a six by six inch flat

woodtable, on which I can place my mug.

This area is conveniently located in front of

the stereo, so I will remember to turn on your

favoriteblues station. It happens to be the place

where your kitty blanket and all your brushes are

stored, under the stereo cabinet. The weight of your
absence made the sunless thundering sky -- soaking
fallen leaves on the ground outside almost go unnoticed.

Big Trip to Ithaca

2011-09-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

The Big Trip to Ithaca

Wetake Mystie to Cornell tomorrow for radioactive iodine treatment for her thyroid. I havetold her the plan, over and over, but with our cat - human language barrier, I amnot sure if I am making myself clear. It is unlike anything we have ever donetogether in the last fourteen years. Yet,all day I told her: At 10:00 PM, we have to take your food bowl away. She went right to it at 9:58 PM, then downstairsto bed. Does she know she will be stayingat Cornell for awhile, maybe a whole week, alone in a cage with only one other cat in the room? The anticipation of this separation is sapping me like a bad cold on a dank day. But I must remind myself that if all goes well, itwill be a cure! She should add some flesh back to her thin little frame, gain weightand live longer than she would otherwise. The vet assured me she will visit Mystietwo or three times a day, that she’ll leave her with a radio on. I told herMystie likes Jazz and Blues. I forgot totell her that she hates ads and news or too much commotion.)

We have already packed the GPS, the cat food,the X-rays, the medical records, our rain jackets and some kind of breakfast snack to make for a quick departure. I willhold her in the the cage in my lap for two hours, and reassure her, best as I can. If she rubs her face against my reaching, needy fingers, I will know she is trying to reassure me too.

Photo of Grandma

2011-09-26T18:36:00.001-07:00

Photo of Grandma

Becauseit’s almost

theonly photo I have

of her,my grandmother

isalways holding a teacup,

alwayswearing a light colored

dresswith a thin black belt, always

standingto the right of her larger

shadow andthe shadow of a ladder-

backchair on the muted wallpaper.

Was sheabout to fill the teacup,

or putthe teacup away? She has

stoppedto look at the camera,

with asmile that balances the

sadnessin her eyes, as perfectly

as theporcelain cup in her hand.

I couldalways see my Dad and

threeuncles in her face, but now

I cansee my cousin Kim, too—

whom Ionce barely knew,

but nowI call my own.

Say A Little Prayer

2011-09-22T19:56:00.001-07:00

Say A Little Prayer

Sirenswailing past remind

me ofour mother’s words—

Say a prayer for whomever

is in the back of that ambulance.

We wereyoung, absorbed in our

playing,or riding in a car on the way

to thelake, or visiting cousins, or

somewherefun, and she would call

ourattention to suffering—it did not

matterwhose suffering. It mattered

that wehad a relationship with God.

Decadeslater, I still pause, at least

for aquick thought—a moment of

compassionfor a stranger passing

by. God bless whomever is on that

unplannedtrip. It might even be

theirlast ride. There, but for the

grace ofGod. . . There, but for

timing. . .There, but for the fact

that it’sjust not your turn yet—

goes someone in an ambulance,

lyingalone, or lying next to a

frightenedhelpless loved one.

So saya little prayer now.

Before Dawn/Before Midnight

2011-09-20T19:11:00.001-07:00

Before Dawn/Before Midnight

September 20^th,2011

Beforedawn, my husband

leavesme with a beautiful

poem hehas posted today

on hisblog for all to see.

It isour 8^th anniversary,

which,sadly, he is spending

withco-workers in New York.

Before dusk,he sends me

an invitationto dine with him

at Rooneys,our favorite high-

end restaurant,on Friday night.

Beforethis day ends, I have a little

surprisefor him too—a DVD that

neitherof us has ever seen, filmed

by John,my brother, on our wedding

day. It’s now cued up, ready to play—

arecording of the vows we made to each

other,the words we wrote to give meaning

to ourcommitment to each other for that

which wasto come, in a future we were yet

to see—afuture with more happiness

than wecould have imagined that day—

yet,looking back now from here—

thereit is, brimming right out

of thescreen—like a beacon—

sobright, so full, rich and bright.

Is This Time Travel Too?

2011-09-19T19:18:00.000-07:00

The ACon the airplane is blowing

shortstray hairs across my face,

triggeringa memory of my Dad, asking

me topull back my hair—when I leaned

over tokiss him goodbye those last days

weshared. I feel bad he had to ask me

morethan once. It must have been

annoying. Is this memory surfacing

hereand now a form of time travel?

Was there something else?

Somethingbeyond the surface of

thatrequest that day back then?

Thestewardess with blue eyes and

deepcheek dimples—is holding a phone

to herear. The tone of the plane ischanging.

Soonthe descent will be announced, but will

takeforever. She is older, maybe my age, thin

and firm. This triggers for me the one interview

I hadwith United Airlines—how I had to walk

backand forth, then turn around, as someone

lookedme up and down. I weighed 125 pounds

at fivefoot seven. Not quite good enough. I’m

glad Ididn’t get that job, but wonder— if I had,

would I have learned to travel light, with ease?

Maybe Iwould have been laid-off, as so many

were--then what? Leaving my questions

up inthe air, I fasten my seat belt, anxious

for asmooth landing, my life on the ground.

Escape to the Cinema

2011-09-18T19:48:00.001-07:00

Catchingher reflection in the

mirror,she is taken aback at the

look ofaging—the sagging skin,

accumulatinglines, shadows

that canneither be hidden nor

maskedunder the eyes. Then

they walkout the door, half a

miledown the street to the oldest

neighborhoodtheater. It’s not

justthat she loves films, or goes

to themovies all the time, it is

what happensonce inside of the

darkeningtheater. Five minutes

intothe film, there is no viewer,

nofilm, only the experience of

of beingthe story, following the

lead ‘tillshe is the lead—the

characterMeg Ryan, Gwyneth

Paltrow,or Anne Hathaway is

playing,falling in love with the

characterJohn Cusak, Hugh

Grant,or Colin Firth is playing.

Theromantic comedy sweeps

her awayevery time. Her loving

husbanddoesn’t look surprised

when thefilm is over and she is

not 28. So she must be 28, at

least foran hour or two—at least

‘tillthe mirror tells the truth.

Clutter

2011-09-17T20:03:00.000-07:00

Herhead clouds up when she

foragesthrough articles, clippings,

saved notes, cards and invitations.

If she doesn’thave time now, to review

allthese articles and incidentals, then

when? Ever? Is it all a back-up drive—

a serverof saved articles, humor, and

inspirationthat, once retrieved, will

revivethat previous laugh, that earlier

smile,the sensibilities of the younger

versionof her—of she, who spotted

andtore from newspaper or magazine

somethingthat spoke to her. In some

newspaperlessfuture, will these scraps

from pastjournalists make any sense?

Everybreathing week, she fully intends

to beardown on her burgeoning clutter—

to sortfor recycling, or trash all the

remnantsof what once was her life--

thatwhich now hangs on like

paparazzito an aging former

starlet,waiting for the end.

Glancing Back, but not Forward

2011-09-16T19:32:00.001-07:00

Glancing Back, but Not Forward

Inhigh school, we walked everywhere, even though we still had bikes and didn’tyet have cars or many car privileges. Oneor two of us would start walking to pick up a friend at her house, then thosethree walked to the next and four to the next house ‘til eight or nine of us girlswere gathered, “the clique”—our only goal to stop for a popsicle, fudgesicle,ormaybe a Mounds bar at Gunther’s neighborhood store.

Thenwe circled back, dropping one another off in the approaching dark. I remember carrying the red transistor radioI got for Christmas in 6^th grade—listening to all the songs we knewand loved, singing along.

Now,in my 60’s I walk with my husband. I amcareful to gather my things before we leave the house: glasses, hearing aids, cellphone, plastic bag and long-handledtongs, rain jacket—oh, and keys!

IfI could have seen into the future—to today—from a day in high school, my jawwould’ve dropped at the sight of a personal telephone—of me needing, wearing hearingaids, (though I never could hear very well). The transitional lenses—were they around back then? The sight of thetongs for picking up trash and the idea of it would have been odd. I joke thatthey’re really my cane. The big round-toed walking shoes, roomy enough forcustomized insoles—would’ve looked mighty strange to a kid wearing Keds backthen.

Thisis what I think about as I slam the door to our home, how natural it seems totake off in the fresh air—imagining myself then, unable to imagine me today. I pace myself as we hike up the 68 steps intothe pine-shaded side of the park, past the rhododendrons and azelias. Lou always notices the male cardinal, histotem. I stop breathing at the sight ofa rabbit. We both laugh at the few lateJuly fucsia magnolia blossoms.

Andif the veil separating this moment parts for a second so I might glimpse afuture time, I shake my head no—glance at Lou, stay in the moment, stay in themoment, stay in this moment.

Keyboard

2011-09-15T20:23:00.001-07:00

The oddthing was that I’d just

arrivedhome from being at Sound

Source—playingwith all the piano

keyboards,listening to John C,

thesalesman my brother told me

to see—andmy phone is ringing.

It’sCarol. Hey, I just need to vent,

she says. Hey, I say—interrupting her—

Do youhave a keyboard you want to sell?

Shesays: I have one I’ll give to you.

I say,No, seriously; I’m looking for

akeyboard—you’re out of a job—I’ll

pay you! Do you know if it’s a full

keyboard,or just 66 keys? She says,

I don’tknow—the whole thing, like

always. You plug it into the computer.

I say,Oh, I don’t want to plug it into

acomputer; I want one I can plug

rightinto the wall. She says, I thought

yousaid you needed a keyboard for

yourcomputer! I say, No, I need a

keyboardso I can learn to play piano.

Whatdid you want to vent about?

Shesays: jobs on Craigslist are a scam.

I say,yeah—the keyboards there

are aren’tany good either. Okay,

see youtomorrow, she says.

I Choose

2011-09-14T20:01:00.001-07:00

Finally,having found the treasure

of aparking spot at the Memorial

ArtGallery remote lot, I walk

acrossthe front of the grand

old building,past the metal

sculptedpenguins, the shiny silver

cubes,the abstract dancers, through

thetall glass doors, past the indoor

sunken sculpturegarden, then up

thestairs to a third floor office. I

stand amidsta small collection of

prints,available only to patrons,

inreturn for their past support.

From thevast array of artists

(whose variousstyles hint at

thegallery’s collection), I get to

chooseone piece. Why do I almost

never choosenature, and almost

alwayschoose faces? I browse

andperuse, over and over—

then choosethis odd jester or

clown, depictedneither happy

nor sad—butstrikingly neutral,

calm, open,and masculine, for
a change. The clerk packs my

print ina large hard envelope

and nodsme a kind dismissal.

Onesecond out the door, I pass

in thehall an uncanny female version

of the jokerin my print. She, in her

puffed polkadot outfit, looks me straight

in theeyes, pauses, as if to ask, why him--

thendisappears to my right.

Trimming Privets

2011-09-13T20:37:00.001-07:00

Themore she trimmed and hacked

away atthe Privets dividing two

piecesof property—hers from her

neighbor’s—themore she wanted

totrim. The more she pruned,

themore she questioned what,

exactly,they were providing

privacyfor, or from? They stood

twelve,fifteen, eighteen feet tall between

an un-usedpiece of her neighbor’s yard

frontingan alley and the wall to her

owngarage—cinder block walled,

privateenough. She hauled out both

ladders,a long-handled tree trimmer,

a hand pruner,rakes, leaf bags.

Everycut was a quick decision –

Don’tneed you! You’re out! Too tall,

toointrusive, too brittle, too little, too

low-to-the-ground, too tangled in vine,

too inmy face, too in my way,

too hamperingof the swing

of thechain link fence gate.

Snip—

withoutremorse or sympathy.

There, she said, hours later—

we’re done. See if you can make

a better showing next Spring.