DANA ROBBINS

By the Hudson

On an overcast October day,
my husband and I walk the footpath
near the Mario Cuomo Bridge,

which I remember from my childhood
on the other bank of the river when
it was called the Tappan Zee;

I loved how the arc of the bridge
echoed the elongated music
of that third syllable. Zee…

The flat, river-walk path is favored
by people like us, slow-moving
older couples who look dreary

when seen through young eyes.
We admire the last of the rugosa,
faded hydrangea, and cattails.

On a circle of grass, a slim man
in rose-colored sweats rises
to his toes, lifts his arms into an oval

above his head, extends one leg
into an arabesque. The virus has
darkened theaters perhaps putting

this young dancer out of work.
Now, this grass is his stage, these
hydrangea and late-blooming roses
his audience.

The Peach

It was during my divorce, a weekend visiting
my first love. At sixteen, it was magic, at forty,
less so.

We went to the market to buy food for dinner.
He browsed the three-day-old vegetables
in the sale bin. I steered him away from them.

He corrected the way I pronounced cilantro.
We chose parsley. I suggested chicken but
he said he had a goose for me in the freezer.

“My goose is cooked,” I said. I don’t remember
what we bought, we couldn’t agree on anything,
just that, on our way out, we picked up a single
peach.

The next morning, we split the peach
for breakfast. Unexpectedly, it was perfect,
rich and ripe. As the sweet juices ran down
our chins, we were, briefly, in love again.

Dana earned an MFA from the Stonecoast program of USM. Her books, The Left Side of My Life and After the Parade were published by Moon Pie Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and has been featured on the Writers Almanac.