Mary Jo Balistreri

Promises

Each morning a woman opens the shades, sets plants on the sill, and sits in an armchair. With French roast and a bran muffin, she scans the sky, waits for black to turn into that deep dark blue, her favorite part of sunrise. Relaxing into the coo of a mourning dove today, that distant streak of light appears. She lists a few observations in her notebook: rustling leaves, the baritone of the porch chime, but writing does not easily come these days.

black ice
under the surface
the slip and slide

Where am I? Whose room is this? Is this my bed? her husband asks—the subtext, the basso ostinato, that underlies her every thought. Like the car coated in ice this morning, shrouded in snow—disabled even when scraped off. Her husband even when medicated.

snow squalls
and the keening wind
traffic at a crawl

The sheer weight of bad news day after day: an unexpected delivery at 8 a.m. Installers for a new washer and dryer that install nothing but can’t explain—they don’t speak English. The wasted phone time: trying to unfreeze credit accounts, ordering new medication, finding specialists, making multiple appointments—complicated by robots. And then the bleak news from his doctor.

More snow, frigid weather, another patch of ice. Driving. Always driving. 

Months later, the deep freeze begins to thaw. It’s mild enough to walk in the nearby park. On a bench by the river, she calls her daughter who asks, “What have you written lately?” 

“Nothing,” she responds. “There’s no mind-space, no time for reflection. . .”

By the end of the conversation, though, she has promised to write for one hour. Every day.

billowing clouds
shapeshifting
a phoenix

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About the Author

Mary Jo Balistreri has three published books of poetry and a chapbook. Even when “Jo” isn’t writing haiku she is thinking about it as it helps her to maintain a sense of gratitude and appreciation. She and her husband live in Duluth, Minnesota. Visit her at maryjobalistreripoet.com.