Dwelling Place
I walk into the four-walled
wheelhouse of a post office with
an armful of boxes
thinking about how
I am going to be cheery and nice
in this rush hour of holidays.
The line is long.
I would kill time clearing my phone
if my arms werenโt already stones.
Which means I have no choice but to listen
to the small man in his turtleneck and tweed hat
ask me how long I have lived on the island.
Here we go, I think.
How easily I forget my yoga guru
teaching โbe presentโ
my mother telling me to โhave mannersโ
my priest saying โlove one another.โ
Only one counter open. Ten minutes in.
He offers to hold a box, this man who
lives in a yurt with a pellet stove and no TV.
I am practicing, I tell myself.
We are beyond a brief moment of exchange now.
He has two sons, was a scientist, and lost
the love of his life three short years ago.
We all want to be heard.
To pass the time pleasantly and in good company.
As we move forward, I tune into my breath.
He explains how he purposely listens
to new music to expand his mind.
How old songs are โmere clutter on repeat.โ
I nod, still practicing.
Only now he is describing the animal
language of his backyard racoons
and gesturing as if he has paws.
When he says he speaks to them
through their eyes
I am overpoured with love.
This check-the-box errand
turned into a dwelling place.
We reach the counter, trade names.
We say maybe weโll see each other
at the grocery store next, and chuckle.
โThat would be nice,โ I say
and he says, โI think so too.โ
I realize I am no longer practicing.
Grip
To wake to a face unfamiliar
like going down the wrong alleyway
when all you want is out.
To grip the sheets and slide like a
salamander from the bed on tiptoe.
Pick up your undies and sneak out.
To find your keysโrelief. Now
where is the car? You plead for
last-night flashes to return.
To embrace this day
with a shower, clean clothes, coffee.
Listen to the news of other peopleโs lives.
Go into work as if last night you binge-watched
a Netflix series about a grisly murder.
To quell who you really are.
Oliver Cromwell Hanged Two Years After Dying
Under the shadow of the Abbey
the mob heaved his wrack of bones skyward
his putrid skin peeled, his contorted face
eyeless and undignified.
Controversial in death as in life.
From victor to dictator to monster.
None of this matters when the enemy
regains power and revenge closes in.
Time cannot salvage a ruinous ship.
Not when the frenzy whips up.
They spiked his head on a 20-foot pole.
The hanging not enough.
They point their ungodly finger
and laugh Look at him now! Yet
when they force their children to stare
the head laughs back.
Yvonne Higgins Leachโs second collection of poemsย In the Spaces Between Usย was published by Kelsay Books in 2023. Her first collectionย Another Autumnย was published by Cherry Grove Collections in 2014. She spent decades balancing a career in communications and public relations, raising a family, and pursuing her love of writing poetry. Her latest passion is working with shelter dogs. She splits her time living on Vashon Island and in Spokane, Washington. For more information, visitย www.yvonnehigginsleach.com
