Nebraska Center for Writers

MEMO TO THE WIFE (ON HER ANNIVERSARY)
by Paul Dickey

How do we do it? Sooner or later,
we run out of words. What we gave
is not taken back; what we wanted
to give is given, or forgiven.

I haven't been in the basement
myself for weeks, and I am afraid
that I left a light on. Perhaps
a cigarette is burning a carpet

that has been in the family
for years. Our lives are rich,
hearts are deep in debt. You sing
to a full house of broken glass.

It has been raining for six years,
though off and on. The room is
empty of violins. What can I give
to one who does not have everything?

Reprinted with permission
from Karamu, Vol. IV, #3, February 1976
Copyright © 1976
by Paul Dickey


POTTED PLANT
by Paul Dickey


My father and I in the waiting room
lit cigarettes, holding the smoke
in the heart, not telling anyone.

Near the county school Dad taught,
near the family's wheatlands,
every blade is in the hands of God.

Today the tares grew in our voices.
Black birds perched on the wires
over the homeplace, eavesdropping

on the anonymous snowflakes I breathed
to my sister over the phone. "Tonight
Mom starts into extra innings."

Now the doctor allows us to go up.
Dad carries a potted plant, as though
some Willie Mays had made the catch.

Reprinted with permission
from Kansas Quarterly, Vol. 12, #1, Winter 1980
Copyright © 1980
by Paul Dickey

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