Monday, January 3, 2005

Poem for my parents

To Karen and David On Their 40th Anniversary

My parent's love is not the quiet kind --
where everyone agrees, or else demurs.
My parents are not always of one mind;
  sometimes they ought to stay on different floors.

My parents have divided up the house:
the surreal paintings his, the sofa hers;
the laundry and the stove now in dispute.
And each their chosen route to Giant or the bank
  as best, with heated cries avers.

But when he sneakily procures a trip
to hustle her to England by surprise
-- or when she talks about his days of battling bureaucrats
-- or when they argue over how they met
  (how long he gave her to make up her mind)
you see a pride and warm delight in both their eyes
  which no amount of quibbling
    over mercury in tuna and the better bottled water
      can disguise.

They are the kind to drive all day or night
to fetch a child who's sick, or visit those in need.
They do not quarrel over what is right --
which sacrifice to make, or how
  to shower children with insistent love and pride.
Or take the aged in. Or tell the truth.

He votes for Bush -- she rolls her eyes, and grits her teeth.
She leaves the attic open, and he growls and storms about.
And still:

It's quite a love: unreasonable, and passionate and grand.
What's forged in steel, shrugs off small quakes,
and mighty hearts do fearsome
  (but fulfilling)
lives demand.