Poetry By Wendy Barry

       R. Miller CC




Too Much Water

If she’d lived, she’d have drowned nonetheless--
in all the madness. When she drives to work 
every day—from Willow Street, up the highway 
that runs aslant Brook River, the weeds are 
hanging off her, streaming out the window 
of the car—long purples, maidenhair. Upon 
her head rests a crown of crow-flowers and 
nettles, entwined with the stems of her 
bifocals, pushed back on her hair for the 
drive, cheap sunglasses on her face instead. 
She pulls into the parking lot, and as 
she steps out of the car, the water sluices 
from the open door, around her clothes, 
spilling across the asphalt, filling the 
parking lot. Daisies and ragged robins 
sail past her feet on a stream filled with 
broken glass--glinting fantastically in 
the sun--and candy wrappers. The hoary 
leaves sweep by, towards the sewer grate--lifted 
on the muddy stream. The billows of her 
coat carry her along, buoying her up for a while in 
the flood, shoes ruined again. Her briefcase, 
full of essays, pendant on her shoulder, 
and clambering for attention. She sings
snatches of old songs plucked out of the 
airwaves—a poor singing wretch. Indued 
unto another element, she leaves 
a nettle on the counter at the grocery store
checkout, and puddles on the floor at the vet.

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Pool

Don’t save me, says the child. The child is barely
treading water. Their little face is just 
poked above the surface--nose pointed up 
at a turquoise sky—the flaring nostrils--blue 
eyes, darker than the water, and bright, like 
sapphires--blueberries--night-sky--the droplets 
of water in their hair, on their face, in
their eyelashes, shining. Cheeks rosy from 
exertion and the sun. The pool around 
them is cerulean and stretches out
in a wide rectangle from the child in 
the deep end. We are right there. Stout little
legs are kicking hard beneath the water, 
and they are puffing mightily, their small 
lungs pumping. Don’t save me, they say. We look
at each other. We know this child. We do 
not save them. We let them kick. The sun is 
beating down on us. The wasps are patrolling
the patio. Scrubby bushes poke through the red dirt. 
Pool toys are strewn everywhere, bright-colored 
towels, careless lounge chairs grouped in disarray. 
Don’t save me, says the child. The child is still 
kicking. Don’t save me, the child says. The child 
is grown. 
They are still kicking. Don’t save me, they say.





Plenty

Everybody brings food--when it hits. 
Those whose house it has missed, for now, bring 
offerings to our secret god: the 
butterbean casseroles prepared, the hams 
of sympathy--baked in honey, green beans 
with curled onions and cans of condensed soup, 
containers of fried chicken, both in buckets 
and boxes, or lasagna, vegetable 
or sausage, macaroni and cheese from
a variety of recipes, baked 
ziti, brownies, bagels with cream cheese and
lox, pastries, salads with broccoli florets, 
and quiches. Called to the temple of 
grief, they bring the food in baking dishes 
or aluminum pans, not their good 
dishes, because who knows when things will 
come around, when they will be returned, 
when it will all come back to you. The 
people fill the house, talking, some laughing. 
They bring the food. They are not dead. The 
refrigerator fills up, packed sideways
and backwards, and stuffed into chaos, and 
the platters come out of the cupboards 
and the china cabinet. The high 
priestesses take charge, and onto the table 
the women and girls pile the food, the plates, 
the napkins, the spoons, forks, dull knives, 
while the shamans and acolytes 
drink shots of the burning water 
of life on the porch, or away, 
behind the garage, at the back 
of the yard, or accept a beer 
in the driveway from the cooler 
in the trunk of a car of a 
true believer. Spread out on the 
dining room table, and kitchen 
island or counters, Pyrex dishes 
of scalloped potatoes, stockpots 
of vegetable-bean soup, and cornbread, 
baked in a skillet, chicken and 
rice, and poundcake, banana pudding,
barbecue, buns, and coleslaw
are arranged with fruit salad, 
cold-cuts, chicken pot-pie, ears of 
corn from their garden, chocolate-chip 
cookies, croissants. The grieving heap 
their plates and come back for more. They 
eat in silence, balancing dishes 
and cutlery on their laps, perched on 
benches or folding chairs, the good, 
upholstered furniture. They know 
there is plenty to go around. 

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Wendy Barry is a Connecticut Yankee living in South Carolina. She has recently had poems accepted for publication at The Meadow and Santa Clara Review and is the co-editor of The Annotated Anne of Green Gables from Oxford University Press. She is a poet, gardener, jewelry-maker, painter, teacher, and friend to dogs.
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