What My Heart Wants

By Lana Hechtman Ayers

PROMPT—The story I told myself ...

after Danusha Laméris

A day of silence while the rain intones

lyrics of wind through loose shutters and wonky storm gutters,

warbles plopping drops against the roof shingles,

and rivers the window panes into slow flow.

And when it’s sunny, my purple ceramic mug from the pottery shop

on Main Street decorated with clouds and polka dots of rain.

Eva Cassidy singing “Fields of Gold,” for Blues Alley after her diagnosis,

not knowing how long she could go on, voice halting as a car through snow.

For my mother who wanted to be a singer, a movie star, a famous bowler,

anything but a mother, may she be crooning her way across dimensions now,

getting her close-ups, knocking down all the pins in God’s alleys.

Cuddles with my two moody chihuahuas, the one who chortles odd syllables

like a grampa puffing a cigar, and the one who paints my nose

with her tiny posy-colored tongue.

More stormy ocean beach walks with the sky soft gray as an angora sweater,

and more forest hikes with brown bunnies popping out along the trail,

and birds hidden in evergreens I can’t name who tweet like clacking typewriters.

Crows writing their own poems with inky wings across the gloaming dusk light.

Stars and moon blooming luminous as my grandma’s mythic sequin bolero,

she herself among the heavens now, too.

Marie Howe calls Poetry the one river of song we’re all participating in—

oh, let me float on this river and wade in too far,

drown if that’s what poetry asks of me.

One more bowl of honey sweet Earl Grey ice cream, please Lord, before I die.

And for my death to be a holy Leonard Cohen “Hallelujah” chord

resounding through the drafty, decrepit church of this poor old body.

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Lana Hechtman Ayers is a cat mama, dog mama, sky-watcher, recovering coffee obsessive, and former New Yorker. She leads generative workshops, helps poets assemble their manuscripts, and manages three small presses where she’s fostered over 130 books into the world. Lana writes in a room over her garage in Newport, Oregon. Say hello to her at LanaAyers.com