Not A Love Poem

Jane Schulman

ANOTHER SHOT        

I thought he was dead, lying 

on his back on the bathroom floor 

and stepped across him on my way 

to the sink. The next time I went 

to the bathroom, two back legs quivered.  

Should I give him another shot at life? 

Why not? And flipped him on his belly 

and he crawled leg by leg by leg by leg

across the floor – black beetle shell 

shiny and crisp.  

Life is tough here in Abiquiu’s desert air 

though somehow there’s no shortage 

of mosquitoes, scorpions, flies, 

and ants. Water’s a problem which is why 

that beetle ended up on the bathroom tile

heading for the sink.  

He’s long gone now, off to cross 

the arroyo, on his way 

to fulfill his mission as we all 

are called to do.

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NOT A LOVE POEM    

I wish I could write about love

but my heart’s shut down.

Rage is foreground

as boats capsize in the Sea

off Libya, bodies float near

upturned rubber rafts.

Rage is foreground as children

die of thirst in the deserts

crossing the Southwest border.

Who names the names the turn

immigrants into aliens?

Who names the names that call

a protest a riot?

Later I return to this poem as rage

is at a simmer. Ready

to flare but with room for

other feelings.  Quiet joy

at a carpet of violet phlox

scaling a rock wall.  Raw delight

in a toddler’s squeal as the moon

peeks over a pine tree. 

In the full moon’s light, we pick

plum tomatoes, plump and ripe.

We live these parallel lives – appalled

and broken one moment, grateful

and joyous the next. Each day

presents a chance to heal

and praise our broken world,

reminded by the dove’s mournful

call that all is not lost.