1.
Once a camel now a dog, my bladder
marks my way to the toilet.
Parkinson’s paralyzes my friend’s
legs and larynx. The film of Alzheimer’s
clouds a colleague who, at parties,
recited Beowulf. I read about the poet
who puts his face between a woman’s thighs,
not knowing she’s his wife.
2.
Mornings I stroke through sun
shimmering on water, after a lifeguard
holds down the chairlift button, lowers
me into the pool. I don’t want to leave
the Mansfield Community Center,
hob-nobbing with women in the locker room
while my nursing student helps me dress,
or Stu showers me in the family room.
3.
I don’t want to leave Congregation
Beth El. My best friend Janis, president,
and Jonathan, her spouse; twenty-five years
a Benedictine monk, now English professor,
father of two daughters. Stu and I, the minority
two-Jew couple. Shabbos potlucks, carrot
soufflé, chicken paella, matzo ball soup.
The rabbi’s discussion group, Elisha
refusing to leave Elijah, “as long as
the Lord lives and your soul lives.” Elijah
takes off his mantle, rolls it, strikes
the Jordan. The river splits hither and thither.
They cross onto dry land. “What shall
I do for you before I am whisked away?”
“Leave me a double portion of your spirit.”
Elisha watches Elijah ascend in a whirlwind,
undistracted by fiery horses
streaking a fiery chariot across the sky.
4.
Why leave the Arena where once
a week Matt lifts me onto Spirit’s saddle?
We ride round and round as I inhale,
sending air down into my pelvis, pushing
my belly button out. An invisible string
stretches my helmet to the rafters
where sparrows flit from nest to nest.
My body settles into the rhythm
of Spirit’s gait.
5.
How could I leave my pine-paneled
study? Forsythia, primavera, Cornell
pinks trumpet spring outside
my three windows. Sunrise, a doe
licks her new-born fawn. Hummingbirds
dip beaks into bee balm. A spotted owl
sits atop an oak. Inside, a stained-glass robin
dangles, gift from my kibbutznik cousin,
waiting for an air current to tip it to and fro.
A brass ladybug hangs from a dowel, bringing joy
from Mom, gone twenty years.
6.
Let Stu turn to me in bed
one morning when daylight breaks
through the drapes. His lips
touch mine. I can’t kiss back.
He begins to pull away the comforter.
To lift my legs off the bed. Until
he catches the silence
of my breath.
Joan Seliger Sidney
Joan Seliger Sidney is Writer-in-Residence at the University of Connecticut's Center for Judaic Studies and Contemporary Jewish Life. Her books include Body of Diminishing Motion: Poems and a Memoir – an Eric Hoffer Legacy Finalist, Bereft and Blessed, and The Way the Past Comes Back. Her flash essay, "I Married a Mathematician," appeared in Fast Funny Women. Sidney’s poems and essays have been published in many anthologies and literary journals. She has also translated many French poems by Mireille Gansel, which have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
