Poems for Eva

At Eva’s House

I

The First Evening

We sit together at the squeaky oak table.
I am writing. She isn’t sleepy.
She says maybe she’ll write a letter.
“Well, what day is it?” she asks.
I tell her.
“I can’t see to write,” she says
after scrawling the date.
“And I have nothing to say.”

I offer raspberry sherbet.
She accepts.
“Food is always good,”
she says.

I offer to turn off the lights
so she can sleep. “No, no,” she says.
“Girl, when I shut my eyes,
I’m gone. You won’t keep me
awake.” She demonstrates
how dark it gets
when she shuts
her eyes.

The clothes on the line
hang like shadows
as night moves in
like a dark tumble weed.

II

What Smells at Eva’s House

Under the sink, 3 bloated bodies
of mice float in fetid water.

Outside the door, the sewer
is simmering under a smattering of dirt.

Four mangy dogs have the run
of the place. They eat at will.

Mold, mildew, fly spots,
wood smoke, ashes.

III

What Eva Remembers

She’s 93 with vacancies
and tiny bones that fold in
like tucked wings.

Bruised from a recent fall,
she runs her hand over the wound,
puzzled.
Runs her mind over the terrain
of her life,
puzzled.

Her uncertain flesh is draped
over strings of steely muscles.
She fiercely wraps fingers
around my hand and recites
with passion, the 23rd Psalm,
King James Version.

IV

What Eva Forgets

Who I am
Who you are
Where Bill is
What day
Or year
Or century it is
Where her purse is
Where Bill is
Who I am
Where she is
Where Bill is
Who you are
What day it is
Who I am
Where Bill is.
V

What Eva Says

I do the best I can
And the heck with the rest.
I’m satisfied the way I am.
Damn Eva. Do it right.
There we go. Thousand buses in a row.
No Joe, them is trucks.
Some with cows and some with ducks.
Well, we take it as it comes.
Oh well,
if that’s all I got
to complain
about.