Greensleeves

My car, Greensleeves, is twenty-three, older than I was
When I drove my first car, Sam.
My grandfather died and left Sam
To me. Sam, a cream sedan dappled with rust,
Did not have air-conditioning, power steering,
Or power brakes, but the radio worked fine.
After Sam died, no car felt special until I fell in love
With Greensleeves. A cool silvery green, he has a compact
Disc player, and my parents, too long gone,
Rode in the back seat when they were old
And he was new. I never know when
They’ll show up and stay awhile, as long as I don’t
Turn around, but it’s usually when I play
The piano concertos or piano trios of Rachmaninoff.
All three are buried near each other
In that massive cemetery named for the hall of slain warriors.
They’re all heroes, although not one of them knows that
the others are there. Still, I know they’re together.
When I drive Greensleeves, a CD playing, and my parents are
Behind me, coaxing me forward—
My parents ,who loved Rachmaninoff’s music;
Rachmaninoff, who loved music;
Greensleeves, whom I named for a song—
I tell Greensleeves to play music and to live
Forever, since no one else ever can.

All That Time

Because I’m old, my doctor says
“Remember these words: dog, grass, ball. “
Right away I see a golden dog, a small red ball
Between his paws, his wet nose nuzzling
It forward, on grass so green it hurts my eyes.
I’m afraid I’ll forget the words before the doctor
Asks me to repeat them, so I repeat them to myself
While she keeps talking, her questions muffled, floating.
Through my head.
“Are these the medicines you take?”
I nod. She knows they are because she’s reading from a list.
“Any injuries or hospitalizations this past year?”
I shake my head no. I am careful to hold on
To the bannister, avoid the cracked sidewalk, wear the ugly shoes
With the good tread. This morning I stood before
The cupboard, wondering why I opened it,
Until I remembered I already ate my oatmeal.
“Now tell me those three words,” she says, and I do.
“Very good! Please give this paper to the front desk on your way
Out, and we’ll see you in one year. Call sooner
If you have a problem. Don’t ever hesitate to call.”
When she says “call” I see a phone, an old phone,
A black rotary phone, the phone of my childhood.
“This is how you dial,” my so-young mother showed me,
Guiding my hand as I dialed.
“The smaller numbers go faster,” I complained.
“The 9 and the 0 take too long! I want
All the numbers to go fast, like 1 and 2 and 3.”
Now I want all that time, my young mother, and more.

Ann Calandro is a writer, artist, and classical piano student. Her short stories have
been accepted by The Vincent Brothers Review, Gargoyle, Lit Camp, The Fabulist,
The Plentitudes, and other literary journals. Duck Lake Books published her poetry
chapbook in 2020. Calandro’s artwork has appeared in juried exhibits and in Mayday,
Nunum, Bracken, Zoetic Press, Mud Season Review, Stoneboat, and other journals.
Shanti Arts published three children's books that she wrote and illustrated. She has
a master's degree in English, creative thesis option, from Washington University in
St. Louis, where she studied with poet Donald Finkel.