Poetry by Andy Oram
I stand in a room without walls. Strips of hung paper from the
Past seventy years quiver from the joists.
In the center, a rough oak table is pressed by grinning friends and relations.
The table is scattered with treats
Carried from a scarred porcelain stove.
I feel the bundle’s warmth gradually intertwine with mine,
My forearm greets the churning of small legs,
And I accept them as my own.
Through the streaked pane of a solid double-hung window,
Recently bared of its weary paint,
I envision the eleven paces one year ago from the car to the house,
and my urgent grip on the papers embossed by a lawyer.
I race against the downpour with bent head and sole-squeals.
More precious than my grizzly head were these papers,
More worthy of a legacy than the leather shoes I dredged from the closing.
Arrived finally in my new home, raindrops from my coat still pommeling the pine floor,
I uncradled the packet to make sure nothing was smudged.
One is drawn to gaze at what one cradles.
I retrieve the child from some well-wisher,
Slip a palm beneath his head and become the whole universe of this unfamiliar creature,
Become a presence to the wide pupils that sweep me into their field of vision.
Now we share points on a simple harmonic scale,
The overtones traveling through my chest and arms and lips.
And the baby responds to my resonance.
Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for almost 50 years.
