Two Poems

Everything I Learned About Love I Learned from the Couple Across the Street

in Apartment 5C
who never closed their blinds
the entire time I lived in Brooklyn
who slow danced weekly
drank percolator coffee each morning
and shared a croissant 
made cocktails for one another: her, gin and tonic;
him, Seven & Seven
read the newspaper in bed
retrieved fallen duvets
dressed up to play cards with their friends
studied old photos
applied balm to each other’s backs
cut up melon during summer and ate it over the sink
trimmed each other’s hair: her, bangs; him, beard
built fires
argued, but forgave, hugged even, within the hour
Facetimed with their grandkids
made fresh lemonade and did the crossword
fed pigeons
enjoyed Columbo
hid cigarettes from each other: her, under the sink;
him, at the back of his sock drawer
washed and dried dishes together
watered bromeliads
threw each other birthday parties: her, March 8th
him, December 20th
bought a pet fish
purchased swap meet paintings
wrote holiday cards
folded each other’s laundry
cleaned one another’s dentures
called doctors
picked up pills
set alarms to give her pills
sat with her each day
called loved ones to say their goodbyes
invited a rabbi to utter the Kaddish
hugged hospice workers
kept the funeral flowers for a week
hung a photo of her on the mantle wall
donated her clothing, donated the bed 
slept on the couch thereafter

How the Girl Became a Poet

For Lyuba Yakimchuk

In a vast bomb shelter, hundreds of citizens cup candles. The soft light gives a warm hue to the coldness, and the girl scribbles in her notebook, trying to distract herself from the current images around her with a pleasant one from last month: 

A bike ride down a hill near her church, a steep one, where she cranked the pedals until her legs were rubber and the tires bounced, causing the chain to jingle against the frame. She sped into an overgrown patch of weeds, mostly wild brush, where dried twigs jammed and dinged in the spokes of her wheels. Then she slammed the brakes and watched a little cloud of dirt rise and sweep over her, the dust sparkling with bits of dandelion seed heads. She made a wish.

She tries to capture this moment in a little poem, one that was assigned for class last week, the last day of school before the invasion. She thinks it is silly to write a poem while bombs strike the old brick in her village. She thinks it is stupid to think of another word for “green” when bodies in her neighboring town are being carried out on stretchers as air raid sirens howl. She thinks she is dumb for trying to write a cute poem during a war. 

But, as another bomb is dropped and the shelter shakes again, she drops her pen, and her father wraps her hard before reaching down to pick it up. He passes it back to her. He gives her his candle, too. He asks her if she has enough light to keep going.

Originally published in Roi Fainéant Press

Artwork by Fatema Al Fardan

Mathieu Cailler is the author of two collections of poetry, two children’s titles, a short story collection, and a recent novel. He is also the winner of the Shakespeare Award, the Short Story America Prize, the New England Book Festival Poetry Prize, and the Los Angeles Book Festival Award. His work has appeared in numerous national and international publications, including PANK, The Saturday Evening Post, and the Los Angeles Times. Find him on social media @writesfromla