Marge Piercy
The Listmaker
I am a compiler of lists: 1 bagfine cracked corn, 1 sunflower seeds.
Thin tomato seedlings in hotbed;
check dahlias for sprouting.
Write Kathy. Call Lou. Pay oil
bill. Decide about Montana.
I find withered lists in pockets
of raincoats, reminders to buy birthday
presents for lovers who wear those warm
sweaters now in other lives. And what
did I decide about Montana? To
believe or disbelieve in its existence?
To rise at five some morning and fly there?
A buried assent or denial rots beneath.
I confess too that sometimes when I am listing
what I must do on a Monday, I will put on
tasks already completed for the neat pleasure
of striking them out, checking them off.
What do these lists mean? That I mistrust my memory,
that my attention, a huge hungry crow
settling to carrion even on the highway
hates to rise and flap off, wants to continue
feasting on what it has let down upon
folding the tent of its broad dusty wings.
That I like to conquer chaos one square
at a time like a board game.
That I fear the sins of omission more
than commission. That the whining saw
of the mill of time shrieks always in my ears
as I am borne with all the other logs
forward to be dismantled and rebuilt
into chairs, into frogs, into running water.
All lists start where they halt, in intention.
Only the love that is work completes them.
Marge Piercy's books are published by Knopf. They are all excellent.
They are available
on the shelf at most feminist bookstores and any other bookstore should be able to order
them. Have fun! -Robert
Send me mail at robert@garden.net
This page was last modified on 12/25/95
