Louise Kantro: 5 Poems
Oh, We Were Gorgeous Then
Slim, unwrinkled, with lustrous hair,
we were photographed
in all our various states:
exhausted, confused, pensive, joyful,
children around us
sitting on our laps
leaping off to go play
opening presents
building sand castles.
It was all potential then.
I center each photo
cutting out extraneous parts
before I press Scan.
As the pictures scroll
across my computer screen
some delight me.
Other times, I’m not sure
I can take this continual immersion
into the past fifty years
knowing what I know now.
All the Dogs are Dead
the cats too—
the kitten you snuggled with as a toddler
the pup your dad found,
his mama nowhere in sight.
As a young adult,
you picked up Bonnie,
followed by Lampito and Yo-Yo.
After that came a succession
of cats and dogs of various ages,
a few chosen from a litter,
most strays, either begged for by your kids
or who wandered into your workplace.
You outlive them, of course,
until the very last one is adopted
by someone who chooses
to show love for you
after you have died
by seeing your beloved
cat or dog through
those final days.
For Love of Trees
In solidarity and empathy with all victims of wild fires
Dad created an elaborate map,
noting when each of his two hundred
trees had been planted, how often
and how much water they’d need
so he could move his drip hoses
appropriately, not wasting precious
Southern California water.
On the property of this retirement home,
he grew olive, cumquat, blood orange,
avocado, eucalyptus, oak, and more,
proud of how many kinds of trees
he could make thrive.
For each of the grandchildren
he planted a tree.
Whenever we traveled
the four hundred miles for a visit,
he would show them their tree.
The 2003 Cedar Fire in Crest, California,
destroyed most houses around them.
Their home was saved by the tile roof
and chance or perhaps some trick of wind.
Flames consumed most of Dad’s trees.
Only one of the grandchildren’s trees
survived, my younger son’s.
Dad lost heart, struggled to
do his watering rounds.
Cancer felled him, but the loss
of the trees played a part.
Gone
Who mourns the couch, now long deceased,
Whose cushions, stained orange from
Soda and pizza
Whose wooden arms got
Scratched by kids drawing designs
And then was replaced
By an on-sale couch
Royal blue and comely
As a cheerleader
But whose soft cushions
Made bottoms sink too far in–
Who mourns that old couch?
Who mourns for the kids
Who spilled and scratched and vaulted
Across their childhoods
Careless and sloppy
Taking it all for granted
Who mourns them when they’re gone?
At the Precipice
Visiting family last week
no matter where she sat
she sought lumbar support.
Visiting friends this week
irritable bowel erupting
she excused herself hourly.
Yesterday at the airport
laden with suitcases
she froze at the escalator.
Imagining herself tumbling
ass over teakettle, she tasted
all seventy-three of her years.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher, bridge player, and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocate) for foster children. She has published poetry in such journals as SLAB, Glimpse, the new renaissance, Trajectory Journal, Arlijo, The Willow Review, and Monterey Poetry Review. Pudding House Press published her first chapbook, Dwellingplaces, and A Wild Ride, poems about social and political issues, came out in June from Finishing Line Press. Her latest project is a second chapbook of political poems.