Julia McConnell

Saturday evening I call my mom
to ask if she thought the chicken
I’ve had in the fridge since Sunday
was worth freezing
or if I should throw it out.
 
Before I know it mom is crying
on the other end of the line saying
You fall in love so easy.
 
I am as flummoxed by this
as I am by the accumulated
minutiae of daily life — bits
of paper, old birthday cards,
funeral programs, keys
without a lock – wondering
if they are worth holding
 
on to, or my jealousy over
friends’ happiness.
It is spring again. Everyone
is in love like in all of the old songs.
I am humming Gershwin A lucky
star’s above but not….

I’ve realized that thing
about mortality
it’s no joke. Not just for me
but even the person I want to call
whose voice makes me feel
better. Now the best I can do is listen
to voice mails saved on my phone.

I get up and clean out the fridge
and there’s that chicken
I don’t know what to do with.
 
There are things that seem unbearable
I say sitting
on the porch drinking a beer
dog on my lap.
But really, Mom,
I was just calling about
the chicken.