Two Poems by Denise Duhamel

POEM IN WHICH WE WERE YOUNG AND DUMB

When we moved into that teeny place
on Mulberry Street, a ceiling fan hung
in the middle of our miniscule living room.
Red wires, black wires. It jiggled from side to side.
I think it’s going to fall, I said. It scares me.
You thought I worried too much. I was afraid
to walk under the fan, even when it was off.
I called it a mistletoe of death. Sometimes
I stepped on the couch to avoid it
since the room was so small. One night as we slept
I heard a crash. The motor made a dent in the floor
and the blades spun off. It was the first time
I said I told you so. I hadn’t called the landlord
because I wanted to believe you. I wanted
to believe everything would be just fine.

*

POEM IN WHICH I RECONSIDER THE PASTORAL

I used to think nature poetry was dopey,
O’Hara and all that—I can’t even enjoy a blade
of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy…
But that’s before the trees started to disappear—
dead ocean pockets, hurricanes, and wildfires.
I am late to the party held in this forest,
but I am so glad all of you are still here,
bopping under the twinkle lights of fireflies,
the data-free clouds, the retro disco ball moon.

*

Denise Duhamel’s most recent books of poetry are Pink Lady (Pitt Poetry Series, 2025), Second Story (2021) and Scald (2017). Blowout (2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. A distinguished university professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami, she lives in Dania Beach.