My Sister
My sister enacts meal provider, family clustered
around the table.
Sustenance for body and heart, hollowed
out by this year.
Muffled emptiness behind my ribs muted
by video calls.
Strands across the Pacific from my island
to her wooded home.
My sibling draws me back to Canada, closed
pine borders.
Each call a step closer, but still stranded
on a rock in the ocean.
**
The Toad
Heavy rains, another toad in the garden, poison
to my dog.
Buffo catching, my new pastime, followed
by a marsh trip.
Bye Mr. Toad. No whimsical talking character,
Wind in the Willows cute.
Instead a mammoth, warty body, with venom
sacs behind his ears.
Toad number seven in a lineage, a hopping
invading force.
Beady eyes, fire-plug body, strong jumping legs,
garden bane in Hawaii.
Islands replete with outsiders: frogs, rats, goats,
even tourists.
If the toads arrived with cash would they be more
appreciated?
**
absence of mind
eyes fixed on the wall as I empty my mind
release the words count breaths silently
count one count two count three
air in my nose, down the throat, into the belly
exhalation toward the wall the white blank wall
count one count two count three
bird song bounces into the room waves in my head
sound flow no story quiet still
count one count two count three
clouds cross the sun alter light pupils expand
body changes avoid the prompt peace
count one count two count three
crossed ankles ache blood flow compressed
stillness prevails rise above the physique.
count one count two count three
bell chime softly sounds ears register
limbs unfurl lips curve deep lungful of air
back to the world words return
**
Thirty-three Years
Our anniversary is here, at the onset of 2021,
good start to a more auspicious year.
Some wondered if we would stay together,
concerned about my four months in Mexico.
Archaeology seemed an abrupt change after
slicing the wedding cake with a machete.
But we do fine with absences, each of us
with careers necessitating fieldwork.
Both retired now, writing down the hall
from each other, no distance.
Clicking of keyboards, a background hum
to love, laughter and good food.
I chose a cook, excellent advance planning
for a months-long pandemic.
**
Swallowtail in Bougainvillea
A glance out the window toward a butterfly pulsing its wings
in front of purple bougainvillea vine.
The Asian Swallowtail, like me, a recent migrant to Hawaii,
but more beautiful with its dusty yellow persona.
Another non-native, Bougainvillea grows uninhibited here,
prolific vine tendrils tower twenty feet high.
The climbing plant sends exploratory shoots to my neighbors,
isolated like me, in a pandemic.
***
Susan J. Wurtzburg is a retired academic, and lives in Hawai‘i. She writes and runs her editing business (Sandy Dog Books LLC), in between water sports, family hiking, and socializing online, while she waits for the pandemic to diminish. Susan’s poetry has appeared in the Hawai‘i Pacific Review, The Literary Nest, Poetry and Covid, Quince Magazine, and the Rat’s Ass Review. She is a member of the Rat’s Ass Review Workshop.
