Grandmother's Lap

I am a jungle gym to climbing limbs;
my waist is the apex of a slide
as Hannah giggles in my lap,
tumbles down the ramp of my thighs.

All arms and legs is she
shrieking as I tickle her sides
and tummy.

She throws her small, exuberant head back
and begs the high, white ceiling
for another ride.

The Swimming Lesson

A wide Australian river
lapped the hem of blue mountains.
In overhanging eucalyptus
birds I couldn't name
skip-hopped the peeling branches.

When I came up for air you were gone.
Petrified, I let the current buoy me
in its calm resistance like a father.
You stood on the river bank
holding back the sun with your hand.

Orca

The Olympics stretch beyond
the silk trees.

There is nothing I can see,
except these whales swimming.

In arcs of black and white rubber,
they die

though there is blood
on no one's hands.

Lunch In Pigeon Square

In the plaza a glorious general on a horse
is prepared to strike. Cherubs pee into a fountain
of green water scarred with coins.
An old woman who's outgrown her coat
feeds breadcrumbs to a flight of pigeons.

I want to say "hello" but I'm afraid
she'll turn and the birds will scatter.
I imagine her life. I think she must be one
who listens at keyholes, waiting for someone
to return. A lover, perhaps, or children long dead.

Maybe there is a stooped husband impatient
for sausages and bread in a room draped
with tapestries of Jesus. So many here
with cameras hanging heavy round their necks.
Won't someone take her picture?
An old woman with a pigeon on her arm.