Instructions Before Leaving (with apologies to Billy Collins)
Thursday, June 17, 2010 at 7:24AM | by Otter
Instructions Before Leaving
When rain comes, pull the cat inside.
She’ll writhe between your hands
and hate you with her padded paws.
You won’t forget to fill the bowl with water
or to stand like God with manna in your hand
above my angry Hebrews in their aquarium.
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A digression: we ate and have breathed here,
have wiped the crumbs of life from the table
and argued about who must sweep them up
for the birds. Be careful of them.
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Scatter mail here on this table,
make a carpet of charges,
glossy color visions of my life in
L.L. Bean model’s body
with my hair cut short, my summer cabin
a stage for my careless smile that says,
“I am happy in my twill slacks, chamois
shirt (burgundy), and Maine Guide Parka (royal blue).”
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A digression: you too will pocket your key
a last time. When the house is filled with
dreams and you come to the end,
you will pull on your best skirt and go out.
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Sweep the floor where I sat with my children
singing, Hush, my fading violet.
Be sure no dust comes between the place where now
I am and where I was, where I crawled
like a beast ravening after meat, singing.
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A digression: “2BR1BT HWF GD LOCTN. GD SCHLS.”
Life is 25 characters long, counting the full stops.
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Last of all there is the spider.
You must wash the dishes, after all.
Her clean web hangs swept and singing
over the sink. Look through the dirty window
and note her trembling in fits between
the glass and screen. You must wonder why.
Throw open the sash sometimes.
You must wonder as you watch her
what the rainless day says to the ground
what the swelling waves say to the cliff
what the mother sighs to her suckling child.
Clean your dishes beneath that question
that hovers like an outstretched hand.
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