Martha's Poem
by Courtney Cliften
Martha next door lives alone, except for Rico,
the cat that comes when called,
but never for long and only for dinner.
Martha offers coals for the barbeque,
quarters for the laundry, leaves her porch light on
late, until she hears my lock click into place.
Martha empties my dirty coffee can ashtray,
leaves a note on my windowsill
to stop by before work, the promise of tamales,
homemade salsa, packed neatly in Tupperware.
Martha leaves a pitcher of horchata on my doorstep
every few days. I will rinse it, return it clean and dry
with a note—a couplet about the birds—
that she will press between the pages of her phone book.
Martha will fill the pitcher with sangria after a test,
a promotion, a breakup, a full moon, a Tuesday.
I’ll bring my kitchen chairs to the front porch,
and Martha will bring her two crystal tumblers.
She’ll set a plate of shrimp by her feet,
call out for Rico, but only once, and quietly.
I’ll rest my head on Martha’s lap, hear the sound
of blowing on hot soup, a wooden comb
through thick wet hair, tall grass blowing in the wind,
suggesting how plain pleasure can be.
the cat that comes when called,
but never for long and only for dinner.
Martha offers coals for the barbeque,
quarters for the laundry, leaves her porch light on
late, until she hears my lock click into place.
Martha empties my dirty coffee can ashtray,
leaves a note on my windowsill
to stop by before work, the promise of tamales,
homemade salsa, packed neatly in Tupperware.
Martha leaves a pitcher of horchata on my doorstep
every few days. I will rinse it, return it clean and dry
with a note—a couplet about the birds—
that she will press between the pages of her phone book.
Martha will fill the pitcher with sangria after a test,
a promotion, a breakup, a full moon, a Tuesday.
I’ll bring my kitchen chairs to the front porch,
and Martha will bring her two crystal tumblers.
She’ll set a plate of shrimp by her feet,
call out for Rico, but only once, and quietly.
I’ll rest my head on Martha’s lap, hear the sound
of blowing on hot soup, a wooden comb
through thick wet hair, tall grass blowing in the wind,
suggesting how plain pleasure can be.