Breaking Open Garlic & If It Is Meant To Be, two poems by Wally Swist

I use the base of both of my palms
to press against the bottom of the bulb.

The garlic opens into cloves that splay
across the grain of the cutting board.

When I crush the cloves so I can
peel them easily, I hear her saying,

Don’t wait for me in this life, each clove
an incarnation unresolved:

some in Egypt, several in Sweden,
the last in Japan, and before her voice

dissolves like a bell, I inhale the pungent
fragrance of the unforgettable.

That first Sunday walking in Whately,
a cabbage white floats beyond us,
as if our energy together is the wind itself.

We talk about learning how to play Silver Bells
on the piano, so we can sing it at Christmas.
Later, when you ask, What is your favorite piece?

both of us choose the pleasing
simplicity of the celadon Chinese bowl;
the Turkish candelabra, ornamented

with gilt-leafed loops around each candlestick
that open with the signature of infinity;
the three duodecimal volumes bound

in the sensuality of 15th century Italian vellum.
You see me in the shells in the bell jar
on the ledge of your office window.

We walk in our own sweet music, that easy
wind that makes the pleats of your skirt swirl,
causes the creases of my slacks to ripple.

When Rilke speaks about his hands, as he writes,
having a life of their own, you go on beyond me
somewhere, and I know I am a happy part of you.