A sliver of moon

behind darkening clouds

is hiding but starting

to emerge

and my tongue sings for slivers of apple

baking, exuding juice

soaking into pastry.

At the farm I park.

In my mind I’m still at work,

listening to locked up children

yanked away from their families—one

boy shouting

blaming others

until he broke down in sobs

tears and snot smearing the table

as he recalled his mother dying.

His grief was a secret he’d hidden from himself

for years beneath troubles and dreams.

I open my car door, still thinking.

I’m too tired to care so much about these kids.

An odor from distant rotting fields lifts along the path

where in summer neighbors bustled

in shorts and sandals

sharing greetings and gossip.

Now birds nest in cold breezes

and dry stems rattle.

I reach into a box of ripe apples

and take ones that call, skins sticky

and flesh mellow, demanding

to be used in my pie.

Falling leaves whisper on the roof.

A hanging scale creaks with the weight

of my full canvas bag and I yield to the claim

of one more apple.  An even five pounds.

Bills and coins are counted and placed in the tray

and my shoulder sags, saddled

with the heavy bag.

I look up as the moon emerges.

A heart is heavy when it's empty

but light when it is full.

by Mary McMillan

I live here. I have
A boat, of sorts, made of
Odd planks, borrowed nails, toxic
Glue. I made a sail from old
Clothes, clothes I wore when I lived

Elsewhere, when I worked
In the city, downtown. Silk,
Pima cotton, microfiber, lace. I sewed
With thread I made from the rough twine

My father handed down, unknowingly.
I unraveled that twine, strand by strand, until
It was simple enough to understand,

And real enough to use. I use
This sail for days when wind
Is, not wild, but forceful, and I need

holes, some give and surrender,
To stay my course. Because

Staying my course is what I do,
When things go right. Staying my course
In wind, in currents, in waves and tides, in the wake

Of boats that are big and have motors. In the still
Of calmness. When my sail is utterly
Useless. When there is

Silence. And birds dive in to feed,
And shadows threaten from deep below. And it grows
Dark. And the wind is withheld. And the air
Grows cold. And my thumbs and knees ache. And I am out
In the open, alone. And I want,

More than anything, to go home.

And above me birds are warm in their feathers.
Below, fish are feeding off each other.
After a while, I lie down. I am
a small thing among stars and creatures,

and we are home.

by Mary McMillan

After High School, I came to the city and found
a job. My boss was a travel agent and I did
some typing and filing and filling out forms.
His accent was thick and I often had to ask
for him to repeat things, and he was kind

and patient in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
I soon learned that all his clients were traveling
to Israel, and he was from Germany. But when he

reached out one day to hand me something,
anything, across the wide desk, maybe a pen, an address,
his big frame blocking sunlight from the window behind;
the long striped cuff of his sleeve, underneath an anonymous
beige polyester jacket, slid upward, fabric stretching,
exposing a pale wrist, tattooed with six numbers.

As I stared, the number was again
hidden. We continued
processing the ticket, discussing the form, as though
nothing had changed, as though this man and I
were not now occupying a place

that had been split into two
separate, distinct worlds. To see one

where he was a number, we would need
to hide this world
where we love our families
and things make sense.

(c)Mary McMillan

Dear God, who are inside and outside all of us

and are greater than anyone and all of us

all things that happen and will happen

unfold within your embrace.

Give us eyes to see your beauty in the sunlight

when the horizon is empty and the grass is dry.

Give us the key to your great mystery

when we are trapped inside a small certainty.

When we are faced with a man raging

give us strength to look into his eyes

long enough to make him wonder.

When we are grim with despair

let us hear passion

stirring in our hearts.

When we are lost in the hollow root of loneliness

let us open up our stale stories

to find our buried spirit

and let her breathe freely in our company.

When we are paralyzed with sorrow

give us the courage to reach up

up out of the cold ashes

reach up

to the long high song of bending and forgiving

and pour that song

into our own voices.

Dear God, deliver us from the blindness of what we already know

and let us see your mystery and beauty in all creatures, Amen.

During the last three decades presidents told us

that dread and greed would puff and drive

our economy into Heaven

and I believed them.

Listen, Obama. I should have known

about hell. My father

who was almost a Catholic priest

daily drove to work in a plant

making warplanes. For decades

he hated his job and he hated himself.

And all night long he hated us.

With his cruel mouth and frustrated fists

he defined our lives

like a cage of bare limbs and utility wires

and illusionary laws driving our economy.

But now he has crawled

into my mind’s crowded cage. Listen, Obama.

Like you, he sometimes shrugs off

mounds of prejudice and hate

and stands up. He takes my pen and writes

Do not hate me. Learn from my choices.

He quotes Jesus, Do not do what you hate.

When you are thirsty, drink.

When you need air, open the window.

Listen, Obama. How will we make our choices?

He says, Gird your mind against habits of all kinds.

Throw them back, like small fishes.

In your net, look for the big fish, and choose that one.

(c)Mary McMillan

Time winds out of me

like an unending thread.

I water plants.

I wash clothes.

I cook.

Inside, a boy locked in a cell

bangs against the hollow wall

making music.

(c)Mary McMillan

First, find the bulbs of flesh with skin

not black, but absorbed in yellow

that has all soaked inside, reflecting darkest

blue and red blacking gray.

Allow yourself to handle each one, letting her rest

for a moment in your palm, before you pull. You will reach

under her flat dense leaf

and pull her out from shelter

yank her from the body of bark and wood whose roots

have anchored her. His arms have kept her for months, and now

you will take her. Settle each fig into your basket and carry them all into

your house, to rest, unless there is one who calls you

whose warm body is soft and yielding, whose dull dark skin

almost fades into her flesh, whose heavy bottom sinks into your palm.

Pick up a sharp serrated knife between thumb

and forefinger and slice her open. Let her fall onto your plate. Look.

Tiny yellow seeds have exploded into pinkish red flesh

filling her with shining beauty.

Pale yellow flesh makes a halo around her belly.

Bite into her. Crunch her seeds with your molars.

Her sweet juice coats your tongue. Her black lemon body

fills your mouth with life.

(c)Mary McMillan