Two Poems

Laverne Zabielski

Reindeer eyeballs turn blue in winter

to help them see at lower light levels.

I was watching Shiloh‘s eyes beginning to tear up.

The candy eyeballs were still wrapped in plastic, 

one in each pocket.

His aunt had given them to him.

This afternoon’s visit was about to be over.

His father would be coming soon to pick him up,

and Shiloh had not done two of the things

he loves most when at Grammy’s.

Watch a little TV and eat a treat.

Don’t we all.

Given his parents and my concern about

the amount of TV watching and sugar consumption

I try to manage both

OK, we’ll set the timer for 30 minutes for the TV.

What do you want for your treat?

Ice cream with whipped cream on top!

I don’t have any whipped cream but I can fix you a bowl of ice cream. What flavor, vanilla or mint chocolate chip?

Mint chocolate chip is my favorite!

I took it out of the freezer and scooped three little circles and placed them in the bowl. They covered the whole bottom looking like more than there actually was.

Shiloh was not fooled.

Disappointment covered his face. 

Head down, he stared at the bowl.

There is nowhere for my eyeballs.

He had had a plan.

At five years old he always has a plan.

And he always wants what he wants when he wants it. And he needed more ice cream for implementation.

I too had a plan.

And I was not going to give him more ice cream.

His father, my son, would be angry at Shiloh and me.

He sat on the edge of the couch,

staring at the bowl with a pathetic look on his face.

I looked at him, trying to figure out a way to handle it without being forceful. I thought about my writing mentor, Katerina, and how she responds to a writer's work. I was always impressed when she would say

If it were my poem…

then give her suggestions.

I took the hint. Looked at Shiloh and said

If it was my bowl of ice cream and I knew my father was coming soon and this was all I was gonna get, I would start eating it.

Without saying a word, Shiloh took the eyeballs out of his pockets. Handed them to me to use the kitchen scissors to open the plastic paper wrapping.

He took out each eyeball, placed it carefully in its designated location as I started the Dennis the Menace movie.

Larry still sleeps in the twin bed.

I take over the queen

but not on the night of our death.

For the past seven years

we have practiced breathing slower.

We have practiced feeling our breath

          smooth over every organ in our body.

We have eaten less and less and never feel hungry.

We are thin, but not too thin.

This is the way we planned it.

It’s going to happen in seven years.

I will be the same age Larry is now.

The grass will have been mowed, flowers weeded,

and clippings saved for compost.

The house will still need painting, and

there will still be flakes of peeling paint

          hanging from the ceilings.

Hopefully, the windows will have been

washed by then, but I can’t promise.

Larry still sleeps in the twin bed.

I take over the queen.

Snoring never abated for us to sleep together.

But we will on this night.

That will be your first clue.

All our bills are paid. Most of the equity

in the house is gone. We have discussed

written and rewritten our wills many times,

making no changes other than the amount

to divide has gotten smaller.

It’s always going to happen seven years from now.

We will be healthy, slow and foggy.

Our stimulating discussions never change.

We talk more and more about poetry,

less and less about politics.

The only problem with poetry is understanding

but that’s good. That’s where discussions live.

We eat very little.

Larry refuses to stop eating

ice cream which friends continue to supply

          since I won’t.

He’s making a recording for that night.

I will finally be the age he is now.

We will put his music in the music box and listen.

We will start out in bed facing each other.

After a while, I will roll over on my side,

he will slide over closer.

This will be your second clue.

This is the way we planned it.

The surrender, the letting go.

one breath at a time.