Singapore by Mary Oliver

 

SINGAPORE

by Mary Oliver

In Singapore, in the airport,

a darkness was ripped from my eyes.

In the woman restroom, one compartment stood open.

A woman knelt there, washing something

in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach

and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.

Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.

Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.

A waterfall, or if that is not possible, a fountain

rising and falling.

A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When the woman turned I could not answer her face.

Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and

neither could win.

She smiled and smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?

Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,

which is dull enough.

She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as

hubcaps, with a blue rag.

Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.

She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.

Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don´t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.

And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop

and fly down to the river.

This probably won´t happen.

But maybe it will.

If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course it isn’t.

Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only

the light that can shine out of a life. I mean

the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,

the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean

the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.