Three Poems

by Evalyn Lee

THE WIND WILL HAVE TO DRY

Out the trees. “It is like learning to walk

again,” she says. U-Haul grief on the snow

emergency route, cautioned, over a bridge,

subject to crosswinds. A sign reads: Give us

a call today. Be prepared to stop. Trees,

stripped of foliage, cut like mile markers in the sun.

Churchman’s Crossing; Wilmington, Delaware:

There is work ahead, a weigh station, open,

when flashing. Buckle up, America. Rough road ahead.

I drive on. Crying. Grieve us a call today.

There is more to bare, more bridges,

over space, bright and wet and rough.

I SERVE MEADBANK CARE HOME

Their care-home room, their bed, is their home.

I never think to expect death, even

when a bed, their home, is stripped down

to the black plastic mattress, wrinkled

from the weight of a body. Possessions,

crocheted dolls, t-shirts, photos, dresses

get put into plastic bags, shiny, like the skin

of the river, at dusk, when the starlings—in

a vortex—rise over Battersea Bridge. This lung

of loss breathes, expands, whirls, writhes,

bewilders, becomes wheelchairs, becomes

the dying who shiver and shake in a moving light.

SWIRL, MY GRANNY SAYS

Clearing a hole

is good for the soul.

No, she didn’t. Swoosh.

I don’t have a granny.

Sweep, swoop, swirl.

Arise, arrest, feel.

Go. Sound the bell.

You unknown.

You mystery.

You delicious delight.

BIO: Evalyn Lee is a former CBS News producer currently living in London. Over the years, she has produced television segments for 60 Minutes in New York and the BBC in London. Evalyn has written for Dan Rather, Mike Wallace, and Lesley Stahl while covering a wide range of stories, including both Gulf Wars and numerous investigative pieces. She studied English literature both in the U.S. and in England and had the opportunity to interview writers, including Joseph Brodsky, Seamus Heaney, Dick Francis, and Margaret Atwood, about their work.