Susan Browne: Duct Tape, Sleep, Pretzels

At 35,000 feet, I look out the airplane window
& see duct tape on the propeller.
It reminds me of the human condition
& so does the curly head of the girl next to me
resting against my shoulder.
At first, it’s uncomfortable
being used as a pillow
& her head is heavy, but I never sleep
on planes anyway & can still read
my book through the corkscrews of her hair.
Out the window, past the duct tape, the sky
goes on a journey of freedom
& fearlessness. That’s the human condition, too,
or else no one would ever get on a plane
or have children. The girl shifts in her seat,
her head snuggles closer to my chest.
She could be my daughter
although her mother is on her other side
fast asleep. Like being fastened into sleep?
As if sleep holds you, secure.
My philosophy professor in college told the class
there was no such thing as security.
He leaned out of his chair
toward us, his face all sharp angles,
his eyes holding the softness
of frayed silk. He killed himself
before he could grade our finals.
The mother wakes up, looks at me, startled.
Oh, sorry, she says & tries to wake her daughter
with little shoves. It’s okay, I say.
She sighs back into sleep.
I open the pack of pretzels that’s been squashed
in my pocket & eat the broken pieces,
trying not to get crumbs in the girl’s hair.

Susan Browne: Strange ode

I wanted love so badly
I flew to Cedar Rapids
to stay with a man I barely knew,
and when I arrived at his house,
we chatted for a bit, and he poured
us each a glass of wine and after
a few sips asked if I’d pee
on his head. He was a psychologist,
so I hoped he was joking.
We’d met in a bar in San Francisco—
I was often in a bar in those days,
as if love lived there.
My father was an alcoholic,
and my mother had just died,
and looking back at who I was then,
I realize I was crazy from grief.
But at the time I didn’t know what
I was doing, and a stranger had asked
a strange question. “In the kitchen?”
I asked, because that’s where we were,
my small suitcase next to the chair.
“No,” the man said. “In the shower.”
I glanced into the living room: dark wood floor,
dark furniture, drapes closed in midafternoon.
Fear zithered my ribcage. I hadn’t told anyone
where I was. This man could kill me and bury me
in his backyard, and no one would ever find out.
“I think you’d enjoy it,” he said.
“And if you’d like me to, I can also pee
on your head.” “No, thanks.”
I tried to chuckle, but it sounded
like a chicken bone
was stabbing my larynx.
We went for a drive through a beautiful forest
by a river to his parents’ house. The father
wore a blue seersucker suit, and the mother’s dress
was patterned with peonies. His parents
were so kind I felt like I was their daughter.
When they asked about my family,
I said my mother had died in a car accident,
and while I cried, no one said anything
until I was able to stop. The mother held
my hand the whole time. After dinner,
her son and I sat in the backyard
eating ice cream.
I’d never seen fireflies before.
They made a gold constellation
like a sky of stars beneath the stars.
When we got back to his place, we put on
our pajamas and went to bed. He held me
close and told stories from his childhood.
“Shower?” he asked.
I said the fireflies were good enough.
In the morning, I decided to go home,
so he changed the ticket. At the airport,
he gave me a wrapped present, saying it
was something for my journey. As the plane
lifted off, I opened the package, a book:
You Can Be Happy No Matter What,
and I couldn’t put it down.

Susan Browne: In the Art Gallery

The painting of flowers
next to the painting of flames,
and I remember that time, years ago,
when the psychiatrist said, "You feel too much,
you are too sensitive, take these,"
giving me a bottle of pills.  I took them
to the beach, watched light become flame
on the water, and along the ragged cliffs,
small flowers like blue stars,
the world a painting
I couldn't live in.
I opened the bottle, then put it down,
pills spilling on the sand.
Waves carried the flames
and didn't mind the burning,
the arising from and disappearing
into the vastness.  I swam,
let the waves take me,
then treaded water, looking at the sky,
a silver tray full
of the most beautiful nothing.
I swam back, the water was black,
I could sink beyond caring,
but I wanted to live,
to be there
with the beauty and the burning
and let it be too much.

Susan Browne: chance meeting

I know him, that man
walking- toward me up the crowded street
of the city, I have lived with him
seven years now, I know his fast stride,
his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust  
deep in his jacket pockets, hands
that have known my body, touched
its softest part, caused its quick shudders  
and slow releasings, I have seen his face  
above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning  
his eyes closed and opened, I have studied
his eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers,  
I have silently watched him lying beside me  
in the early morning, I know his loneliness,  
like mine, human and sad,
but different, too, his private pain
and pleasure I can never enter even as he comes  
closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers,  
steam rising from the manhole covers,  
gutters running with rain, he lifts his head,  
he sees me, we are strangers again,  
and a rending music of desire and loss—
I don’t know him—courses through me,
and we kiss and say, It’s good to see you,
as if we haven’t seen each other in years  
when it was just a few hours ago,
and we are shy, then, not knowing  
what to say next.