Jennifer Ley

Childhood Lessons



It rained yesterday, here in New Jersey
Torrents, buckets, cats, yes and little dogs, too
My husband discovered the encroaching footprint
of a water table filled to bursting
(no thirst here, all glasses full)
and ran to the basement, mop in hand
We tried at first to check the growing tide
Nature, over bountiful
But as the water level rose
(mere inches really, this was no biblical flood)
I remembered my childhood
and a house too close to a creek
the four feet of water that would rise
inexorably each spring
and how my Father and Mother
(after that first year, when they cursed,
as first time home buyers are wont to do)
calmly placed our basement things above the water’s reach
knowing it would eventually ebb
And I said, darling, Let’s not fight this
It’s an unusually heavy rain
Let’s just get our things off the floor
Here, give me that mop, silly
Let’s go upstairs and do what people do
on rainy days like these
Let’s spend the day in bed

This morning the basement was dry
The floor dusty, like old bones
It was I who had become wet
and full

I Hug a Cold Stone



I hug a cold stone
and smell the fresh baked cookies
the hard flaky rolls
smothered in butter
two grandparents
and a child
feasting

I hug a cold stone
and learn to sew
Tiny fingers guided 
by gently lined hands
(such dimples she had)

I hug a cold stone
under a lowering sky
in a small midwestern town
and feel your warm pie smell embrace again
Toss a line into a pond
Watch it’s bobber dip and sway
Land a sunfish
glittering
with a faint whiff of
cigar smoke

I hug a cold stone
and sit on the banister steps
reading Mother’s Nancy Drew
refine my inquisitive sense
(She naive, yet strong
who solved so many mysteries)

I hug a cold stone
and am warmed by my childhood memories
of feasts and games and presents
so many heaped upon a blonde haired smiling child
of poppies gently swaying
harvesting cucumbers in a yard
of a first kiss
three of them
that lingered on my mouth till dawn
as I lay wakeful in your four poster bed
my room as an older child
(there were three for guests
over the years I used them all)

I hug a cold stone
mark what I have lost
and call you back
to keep my childhood found

Each With a Spade of Earth



We came to bury our Uncle Lorry
each with a spade of earth
a load we had carried
separate
walking the road
the road walking us
Here cousin, give me your dirt
Let’s add it to the pile
mix that which has been dissolute
too long
rain our tears and grow 
something tall and green
of three Fathers
three Mother
three Grandparents
all gone from us our glue
this lineage passing
Let’s find a horse to shoot
Pots to melt new fixatives
Tears to bind and swell
that which hollow hurts
Cousin take my hand
let’s bury our separateness
in this common grave
and heap it tall
with what is ours to tell

The Good Uncles



Understood I feared the weeds
in the lake off the raft
treaded water and said, “Jump,
I’ll catch you.”
And I jumped 
and survived

The good uncles
understood it took more than one try
to launch a light child on water skis
round Round Lake
-- a fear of pike and their large teeth
near tiny toes
I’d seen one mounted just that morning
when you took us to the penny candy store
But finally I too
roared onto the water
like some feminine Jesus
and you smiled
at how spectacularly 
I finally flipped and fell

The good uncles
taught me to bait a hook
wait for a real bite
and use my wrist to lodge 
the sharp barb home
They talked of coral diving
though one had been a Bishop
and often wore long robes
-- what lessons did he learn
interned in dark Japan, 1942 - 45?

The good uncles
sang and fished and swam
They made a merchild of a girl
too often locked to land
and when winter came
and that rippled expanse turned to shrouded ice 
strong enough to support a car, a man

The good uncles
bundled me up in warmth 
to brave the chill
did that northern walk on water trick
and held my hand