Marianne Boruch
Nice
—for Bill and June Stuckey
I can be nice. I can put my body
flat, down straight, and pull
sleep from somewhere deep
in the brain, that no-weather
thing, that blank page-
after-page thing. I can be
nice enough and say nothing, drift
to the cool room under
a blanket, under all the things
I have to do. Count them. Count
forward or backward: glue
broken things, fill the feeder,
work for a living, make supper, go
anxious unto guilty unto
anxious, full circle. I can love
humankind. I can do that.
I can close my eyes on the bright
windows my neighbors have
framing their big TVs. I can understand.
I can be nice when others decide, steeling
myself, but not as well as my tiny
grandmother did, the tallest person
in the room for a moment. I can, mostly,
drive past Burger King, its Good Luck
Staci (oh, Stacy with an i!) We Miss You!
on whatever the marquee's
called now, be touched and sweetened
or nice enough not to notice. And bite
my tongue. Good doggy. Be nice now, be
nice. I can sacrifice muscle
and bone to sit longer, showing
interest (show interest, my mother warned
as we walked through any really large
set of doors). I know German has
a word, nett, for nice. I can put myself
in that net, drop down so close
to what is underwater
that the fish know me as small,
silent, as sleek and shiny as
they happen to be. And so
weightless there, blue
beyond thought. One would hardly
guess how nice it is, those fish
suspended next to me, their mouths
opening and closing.
The American Poetry Review, March/April 2006.