ELIZABETH S. WOLF

Elizabeth S. Wolf lives in MA with her daughter and several pets, where she maintains a day job as a Technical Metadata Librarian. Elizabeth has previously published poems in local anthologies (Merrimac Mic: Gleanings from the First Year; 30 Poems in November 2014; Amherst Storybook Project).  The Amherst Storybook Project is published in print and on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6d3pUd8jR0

​Grateful for Good Neighbors
for Tom and Marge Crosby

Thank you, kind sir. You saw
something not right- a child?
a doll?- tossed awkwardly in a
pile of leaves. But what’s important 

is this: you stopped. You went back. 
Out of your way, late for work, 
you listened to that little voice- 
something is not right- and you found

a small girl. A toddler, naked and weary,
burned and bruised- tortured- alone-
in that pile of wet leaves. And you and your wife,
you gathered that child up, in your
arms, in your coat, and you brought that
baby home. Thank you. In a crazy mad world

we are told to look for the helpers. And you,
you and your wife, on that morning, by that act,
you saved a small girl, and also
a shred of my soul. 

**
This poem was inspired by a local news story:
http://www.boston.com/news/local/2015/11/23/the-parents-the-kidnapped-hamilton-girl-are-thanking-those-who-helped-find-her/7kwB5yeLKsL0fnEX2VC48N/story.html


The Inside Scoop  
                                    
If I decide to tell you what I see, 
would you love me still?
Trapped tumbling inside are
my comrades from the madhouse: 
the woman who swore 
invisible poodles pooped 
on the rugs. She swore, in her pink
tattered robe, ragged fringes                   
framing her face; she stared 
from under chunks of eye liner, 
stale streaks of blue eye shadow,
stared and saw poodles by the                   
the country club pool, where her 
soon- to- be ex- husband and her 
ex- nanny lay stretched beside her
children, the babies she had born, 
panting and pushing and 
crowning, children who feared her 
now, who lay safely outside, 
in the sun. Here in the hallways 
a skeleton is staring, drugged eyes 
sunk in bony sockets; he tried to 
starve himself, wasted away to
nearly nothing; now he munches
rye toast, walking slowly on skinny 
white legs, leaving a trail of
dry crumbs; walks passed the jew who 
decided one night that he was 
the true jesus, who walked out
barefoot through the snow,
proclaiming his message and all
that was divine; who was carried in
raving and now sits rocking, rocking,
rocking, cradling feet swathed in 
white bandages, covering blackened
frostbitten skin, nearly lost
toes; he believes the doctors from
the ER drained all of his
powers, all of his divine love;
he seeks his debrided skin as if
the shredded scales are holy, as if
he could still be saved. 

Salvation. Lo I have seen
the writing on the wall,
heard the silent scream, 
lunched with 
the hollow men, 
the stuffed men. So
will you, won’t you, 
will you, won’t you,
come and join the dance?
Just this morning I noticed
the door was ajar.
                   
**
The opening line of this poem was inspired by "If I were to tell you what I see, would you love me still?" from: A Case Against Old Habits, Janet Longe Sadler, Amherst Writers and Artists Press
​
Sorrowing

Back and forth,
back and forth.
Oh how I love to go
up in a swing,
up in the sky so blue.

Three years old,
three years old.
Yesterday he was
laughing laughing laughing
at the little dog
with an upturned tail.
Mummy we can see
where he goes poopie!

Back and forth,
back and forth.
Oh how I love to go
up in a swing,
up in the sky so blue.

Mummy mummy mummy
I can’t breathe. The wheeze,
the cough, the wide
terrified eyes,
lips turning blue.
Mummy mummy mummy
where my medicine?

Back and forth,
back and forth.
Oh how I love to go
up in a swing,
up in the sky so blue.

To the park! His very 
favorite place. Over there 
we look for dandelions,  we
puff and blow off all 
the fluff. Here in summer,
the sprinkler comes on.
Look at me, mummy. 
Look at me! Look!

There’s where he toddled 
at two, chasing bubbles,
on stubby chubby legs. 
Here’s where he fell
on his pampered butt,
looking so surprised.

Back and forth,
back and forth.
Oh how I love to go
up in a swing,
up in the sky so blue.

Yesterday she looked
everywhere, everywhere,
couch cushions flying,
bathroom cabinets
flung open, drawers 
overturned.  Where is 
the inhaler. Where is
the epi pen. Mother of God,
where is your Child:
please let my baby
breathe.

Back and forth,
back and forth.
Oh how I love to go
up in a swing,
up in the sky so blue.

She dressed him in 
his Blue’s Clues shirt.
She dressed him in
his red red shorts.
She carried him down
to his favorite park
to the swing he used
as a baby; the swing
with a seatbelt to 
hold him in.  Back and
forth. She sang. She
prayed. When the sun 
went down, she recited 


Goodnight Moon: 
In the great green room
was a telephone, 
and a red balloon…

Back and forth.
He is not giggling.
Back and forth.
He is not pumping 
his sturdy legs;
back and forth
not tossing his shoes
into the grass;
back and forth
he is not breathing
back and forth
Mummy’s best boy
back and forth
keeping in rhythm
back and forth
just the two of us
back and forth
up and down
Mummy and son 
forever and ever,
amen.

Dawn came. The coffee truck 
opened for business.

The police came.

The neighbors watched
from a few feet away.
The baby left on a stretcher,
the sheet pulled up
over his head. The momma went
in another car
to a different place.
Somewhere nobody ever
wanted to go.

Goodnight moon.
Goodnight air.
Goodnight noises everywhere.

Goodnight baby.
Mummy loves you
now and forever,
my little angel.
Amen.



**
Sorrowing was inspired by a story in the Washington Post in May 2015. The events in the poem are completely fictional; I have not followed the continuing story in the news.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/mother-found-pushing-dead-three-year-old-on-a-swing-in-md-park/2015/05/22/b2acd6fe-00b6-11e5-805c-c3f407e5a9e9_story.html

​
Germanwings 9525
24 March 2015

It was a mild mid- morning in March
when the plane, after a short delay, took off
from Barcelona. There were 56 empty
seats; there were 144 passengers
on board; there were 6 crew members. 
There were no survivors.

There were 16 German high school students
heading home that Tuesday. Sixteen lives on the cusp,
aborted. The girl in row 16 sobbed,
wished she had kissed that boy who stared at her,
wished she had hugged her mother and not
turned away, not refused to let her mother help
pack and carry her bag.  Iche liebe meine
mutter, she says, over and over, her stomach in her
ears, her ears throbbing, now she is screaming,
I love my mother.

The pilot knocks at the 
locked cockpit door.
The copilot breathes steadily 
in silence.

The baby in row 11 wails.
His ears hurt, thinks the mama.
She starts to shush and rock her child.
The papa points out the window
with a shaking hand. Look.
Now the mama rocks and prays,
singing the lullaby her mama sang to her:
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep.
She calls on all of the angels of God
to spare her only child.
If this impossible thing is happening
maybe a miracle is possible too.


The businessman in seat 3A gives up
doodling on his expense report
and cries for the child that 
he won’t see grow up; for the wife
he won’t kiss again; for ever leaving home
for a stupid business trip. The businessman thanks God 
for life insurance, hopes that his wife never finds
those pictures tucked up and zipped into 
his briefcase pocket: Please, God, 
spare her that. And mama, 
meine gelibte mutter,
I love you.

The pilot backs up,
lunges at the unrelenting door.
The copilot breathes steadily
in silence.

The retired grandma in row 22
closes her eyes
thanks heaven for this last week
with the children
and their children, precious
kindele; she wings a prayer 
to her best friend through all these
last long years; remembers 
being fond of her husband, 
and prepares to meet him
and her blessed mother
when the plane plunges 
into the blanket of snow
spread over the rugged mountains.

The bass baritone in row 9,
whose honeyed low notes
resonated with dramatic emotion,
is reduced to sobbing and calling out
for Ave Maria, 
Mother of God.


The pilot shouts orders and codes,
thrashing at the door.
The copilot breathes steadily
in silence.

The stewardesses hug each other.
They know crash position
won’t do a damn thing.
They think of the hours spent
trying to identify the enemy in the crowd
while all along evil
was standing beside them,
in uniform. And this is how
it will end.
The high school boy in row 17
is sorry that insisting on sex
ever made Annika cry;
hopes his father remembers
how proud he was
when he made that basket at the buzzer,
and when he stood up to those
jerks at the park, even though
the kid they were picking on
really was a dork. 

The pilot steadies himself
pictures his mother, young and
tender and sleepy, tucking him
back into bed. He apologizes for 
his hubris. The pilot, bellowing,
tries to overthrow fate
but he can’t.

The baby in row 33 puts her hands
to her ears and shrieks. Her mama
screams too, counting her rosaries
on baby’s flexed toes,
begging forgiveness
for minor forgettable sins.


The copilot, breathing steadily
in silence, disables all alarms
overrides auto-corrections
and recalibrates 
his deliberate descent.

The American mother and daughter in row 27
clutch hands as the earth hurtles closer;
the mother closes her eyes, refuses to believe;
the daughter screams “What is happening?”
over and over, as if
translating into a different language could
change the certain course.

The unthinkable happens:
 the plane crashes in flames.

For days the crews search at the Ravin de Rose´,
melted snow refrozen around
chunks of char and melted metal. They find
scattered teeth and bones. They report 
headaches, some nausea, some 
shortness of breath. Possibly
high altitude sickness; the plane 
hit the mountain at 5,000 feet. Possibly
the sudden release of 150 souls
returned to stardust and ash. 
At night the inspector from the local village
goes home, scrubs away the grit and
warms his hands; climbs into bed
giving thanks for his home and family, 
for the mother who loved him and the father
who raised him to be the kind of man 
who walks into the wreckage of hell and 
tries to mend it, or at least
comprehend. He prays for a dreamless sleep, 
but awakens again and again
to the phantom cries
of the anguished pilot
banging 
on the cockpit door. 

The reporter on the spot
once so jaded and cynical
always good for another round of drinks
sets aside his cell phone
ceasing to follow and retweet;
turns off the TV with captions
the radio with constant commentary, 
and closing his tired eyes, thinks back 
to the last time he told his mother 
he loved her; the last time
he saluted his father, lost in
old stories of a forgotten, predictable 
war. The reporter is haunted
by the madness of the copilot
breathing steadily, in silence,
for the 10 long minutes
he dove towards destruction.
The restless reporter 
feels his lips moving in prayer
for the eternal salvation
of the pilot 
blocked
by the locked cockpit door.

**
This poem was inspired by the widely reported actual crash in March 2015. The occupations and ages of the passengers, type of plane, site of the crash, and actions of the pilot and copilot are taken from news stories or twitter. The thoughts of the passengers and crew are solely fiction.