Kimberly Sailor | Marriage's Weekly Schedule

on . . . every street? outside . . . every shop? the cop,
in some manner of hybrid language I understood
only through his disappointed tone, told me that americans and icelanders

are not the same. that here,

the mothers take care of all the babies, and the carriage sleepers would be just fine

while caregivers looked at sulfur coasters or goat soaps inside, because retail transactions

are “very important” on an island country

where citizens take so little shit

they proudly eat their national bird

and serve whale in restaurants

because both are nearby and free

and deliciously prepared with oil glazes

while a fellow american tourist, noticing today’s controversial specials,

declares her independence with a shot of birch schnapps

to honor our eagles and daycare centers

back home

Marriage’s Weekly Schedule

the men who brought my stove

—heavy and expensive and the season’s bestseller—

arrived on a Wednesday, after the neighbor brought donuts

from that bakery you never tried

because it’s closed on Saturdays

when you are free for cake explorations.

She brought the donuts

because she knew I was sad. But the men, they did not care.

The men said: will this fit? is the gas on? where is the broom

because we must sweep this space first

while the neighbor

seeing my preheated tears

took the broom and said, “I will listen to you, men.

I will clean. I will make this work.”

While He, the one who baked my tears,

on Tuesday, Monday, and Sunday,

worked in Europe

and also wondered if the new stove would fit

from his lunchtime spot by a quaint canal

or how much resale

hot appliances fetch

should the house sale be divided in two.

Homecoming

I saw an eagle

bald and unabashedly soaring

like the heroes we fly our flags for

after they are old, and march in Main Street parades

where we stand and clap, feeling at once connected and removed

because we only know civil liberty wars now

not territorial disputes

of which this eagle had none,

snagging a field rabbit right along the interstate

just past the edge of town where we take our grass clippings,

root vegetables, filthy livestock straw, and used espresso clumps imported from Cuba,

because we are responsible, composting citizens now, who share and trade.

I saw an eagle

in a wild act of instinct from my roving analysis station,

but I did not tell you, even though you were beside me in the Volkswagen

looking east out your window, perhaps wondering if Germany has a national bird,

or admiring the mild unplaceable drawl of the radio newscaster who reports in birdsong

with high trills for good weather and whoop-whoops for the high school sports team

who always wins the home games.

I saw an eagle

but I did not tell you,

because I wanted a bit of splendor

and majesty, familiarity and rarity, all to myself

that lovely day last summer, when the oaks bent to hear our car wheels

push the ground, shaking with concern that we returned.

When I Leave

I have to lose twenty or thirty pounds and practice requisite

“self-care” which may mean eating soil-grown earthy

composted straw for holistic positive attention from my peer

group of mid-30s mothers who are dullish white with satiny

kitchen cupboards and semantically invented corporate

titles, because if I am not at once smaller and bigger

there will be no more of me left to give

the one who arrives after you

and I think he will get here soon

because even though I have couple’s therapy alone since

“the unit was beyond help”; even if my nose blackheads

don’t diminish with charcoal and I only burn electric;

even

or because

and should I never see you again

I will yawn the great sigh

of Christmas

with a different monogrammed wreath

but the same

painted pinecones

fashioned to a new front door

bright blue and finally,

my own

Kimberly Sailor is the current Editor-in-Chief of the Recorded A Cappella Review Board. She makes her home in Mount Horeb, WI, where she is an elected official on the school board, fosters rescue dogs, and keeps a lively backyard chicken coop. Kimberly Sailor is the author of the novel The Clarinet Whale, as well as other works of fiction and poetry, and an in-progress children’s book.