For May Sarton

After the stroke, May’s fans brought
her birdseed, in a fifty-pound bag
she couldn’t lift. The poet struggled

to rise, to open the door of her home,
saw the bag, then burst into tears
of frustration.

The bag seemed to torment her,
like the high-heeled slippers
someone gave me after my stroke;

like healthy people who told me
at twenty-three and paralyzed,
it could be worse.

In my backyard in Maine, I spoon
seed into the bird feeder, because
even the smallest bag is too heavy

for me to pour. Mornings, I watch
as squirrels devour the food, fat tails
hanging off the side.