Even though it’s early Spring here, I’m posting a poem in which I used the word cusp.
It’s a poem I wrote almost twenty-five years ago about a much-revered woman of wisdom in my life:
Her black Irish eyes,
practical as tile,
suddenly open like onyx wells
as she snaps out of sleep.
The ragged breath
slips and then catches
on the edge of the cliff
from which she hangs,
and she’s back in the bed, saying
What day is it?
It’s the cusp of October,
humid, tropical, storming through the long afternoon.
Delirious, she’s letting old secrets
slip out around the oxygen mask.
She’s emptying the last closets
where worries of the details of graduations,
anguish of lost colleges,
quiver in the corners.
If the moon answers to the name
Old Woman Who Never Dies,
What should I call her,
whose waning hand holds mine
as she pulls away from me
into the air of the clean cold Sunday morning?