The Edge of Blue and Green
The Sabbath begins
at that time of light
when you cannot tell
a thread of blue
from one of black.
Dusk exists between twilight
and the cusp of dark.
Under a front of storm flows a scent
of subtlety finer than mist.
There lies a shore between rain and no rain,
a coast where blue segues into green,
where the boundaries run
between love and no love,
between child and possibility,
pulse and coming to be.
At Home
At home, I knew where my wife
hid the box of chocolates,
—especially the coconut creams,
and where we kept the paring knife
with the sharp point so I could slit open
the package of graham crackers,
and where we hung my maroon cardigan
(the one with the button coming loose).
She always knew where to find the extra
blanket, for when my feet got cold. Even
in summer our house was cooler than outside,
and my feet would get chilly. Here, you have to ring
for another blanket, and sometimes
it’s not that nice Punjabi girl with the red
spot on her forehead. She always holds her
hands like she was going to pray, and we
say “Namaste” to each other. It’s fun to talk
to her. But sometimes she’s not here.
They say I shouldn’t move too suddenly
or I might pull out the tubes. I have
no reason to get out of bed—where would I go?
Wandering Therapist Blues
Lord, it’s Monday morning—I’m way low down and blue;
Don’t know where to go, don’t know what to do.
Ever have the feeling the whole world’s got you down?
My old psychotherapist is going to leave this town.
I thought he was straight Freudian, but that ain’t rightly true:
Turns out a closet Jungian—whatever will I do?
I can’t accept those primal dreams, re-live the caveman years,
Re-do my sexual orientation, forget my nighttime fears.
He don’t need no leather sofa—but he sure cures my ills.
Talk therapy’s old fashioned—he uses purple pills.
He helped stop my scary dreaming, making me feel certain
that ain’t a lurking wolf casting shadows on my curtain.
Oh, he got me on medication, put me back into control.
I am getting right again with me, fixing up my poor lost soul.
He had me keep on talking, gave me a sense of power,
I’ll miss those cheery conversations at two hundred bucks an hour.
Andy Kalnik began to work seriously with poetry late in life. A native of Chicago, Andy holds a BS degree in English Composition from Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois.