Robert Rothman lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the  hill. His work has appeared in Atlanta Review, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Tampa Review, Willow Review, and over one hundred thirty other literary journals in the United States, England, Ireland, Canada, Wales, Australia and Hong Kong. Please see his website (www.robertrothmanpoet.com) for more information about him and his work.

MARCH 1st

Age jades. Not this day. Rust
removed. Eyes cleared. You 
are brought to a stop and stare
at the plum tree, yesterday bare
and now so white-petaled, so bright
that sight is stunned. The winter’s white
that froze, drove one to cover and
retreat is over. Spring zings in a way
uncanny. You are bedecked, flocked
and garlanded as good as the tree. You
are undone, undisguised, unearthed to

the air. Sparkle and glisten you new thing.

FUNERAL

I go to too many. Too many times I am standing
here, awkward and at a loss in a black suit, like
my friend, though he is not standing, is wearing a 
white shroud, and is no longer awkward. He was sitting 
down with a cup of cardamon tea on a quiet morning, 
wife away, children grown up and away, steam rising 
into the cool morning air. Then he was no more, no more
alive. Funerals. Morbidity squared. Who can say
anything that means anything. Damn him, too soon. 
When you die you leave a perfume, a particular scent
of being. Can be as bitter as cyanide or fragrant as 
a spring rose. His was spicy, humorous, and with 
a hint of sadness. Words: to palliate the pain. Better, an
Irish wake: Drink to excess, celebrate, listen to 
snippets that you would never know except for the dying 
and gathering of the mob of friends and family who
fill in the gaps  If you go to the Dead Sea, the lowest
point on Earth, saline to the extreme, and lie on your back
you can float forever, supported magically, as if in a trance,

the sun an eternal star, and the blue, inscrutable sky staring back.

POPPY

If you look at a poppy in early
morning, the bright orange petals
are closed like a fan into a narrow 
line, and dew dots the outer skin
like small raindrops. When the first
ray of sunlight touches the paper-thin
petals, you can almost feel a slight
tremor. Then, as the light diffuses
through the trees, the full length of
the shuttered petals slowly open
until, fully spread, they cup the sunlight
in orange jubilation. It is always the same
way: the dark clutching of emptiness,

and then the miracle the light finds you.

SO THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT

I can’t do what you do
always doing something
for someone else so you
don’t have time to do 
anything for yourself
and almost disappear
into a golden glow of
energy like a small sun.

FIG

When you see the four trees espaliered against 
the fence you understand, the palmate shaped
deep green leaves, large enough to serve as a
sculpted loin cloth, the branches ten feet
high and reaching over, and the aubergine
colored, teardrop fruits that grow in profusion,
and when ripe yield to a twist and soft tug. Sliced
in half, a pale, greenish milky sap surrounds 
the reddish, fibrous, seedy, creamy flesh that tastes 
of honey and the hot desert winds that blow across 
North Africa. You stand inside again, remembering.