Nibs
bravest little boy
once held in mama’s arms now
held in memory
– Jessica Swafford
in the clouds that careen
over the changing frame that is a car window
{the set-up: a voluminous rig,
darting,
like Ali,
two lanes sinister,
then dextrously in a blink }
suddenly swerved into an idea
that this is how idiots kill,
upending life
like candles at a birthday party
and rewriting a bedrock gnome,
that the fit fight on
[but don’t think this is about me almost dying
in a car accident]
–by then, self assured
that life lives on {and the immediate threat
having been passed} [oh why
am I compelled to set my imperfect thoughts bare
in the fragile concept of words?] my worst nature
got the best of me,
and I set forth the following:
<<let us posit that tools, equitable,
readily available to all,
are fair in Darwin’s game–
that the fighter’s finesse is honed
to his (and my)
own end
so then, am I to conclude
that all is fair
in war and night clubs?
that I die deservedly so
because I would rather flee than flay
my foolish foe, who does not find himself in me?
that the augmented parochial myopia deserves
to win simply because of its own augmentedness?>>
this outcome stands unbearable
(and tautologically tortured)
before my mind
and I nearly sink in despair
then my flotsam self clings
to a corollary concept:
<<to all before, stet,
and from there springs
indominable life and joy,
for we have said
that life will out,
moreover our tools are intangential
our ideas impact beyond ourselves
(and ideas are bulletproof, too),
and life, recognizing life, will rejoin before it
tears itself assunder,
because the love of life
is life itself,
and every object is stoppable
in the face of unmovable life
so then I am to conclude
that we can disagree, even disagreeably,
and the love of life will hold us together!
that nature begat nurture
and community is a concept that polishes
and makes oneself a mirror for his fellow man!
that the device of the individual sows its own defeat
while the apparatus of the communal builds itself up!>>
–by then, self assured
that life lives on {and the immediate threat
having been passed}
my mind moves me
onward
and I dance among the clouds
Eyes and shoulders down,
I can’t see the color of his eyes-
Though I know the marbled blue and white like a map I’ve studied my entire life-
and his hair looks darker, like it’s soaked in sweat.
There are little shoots of silver in it.
When he asks for a hug he sounds
a little bit sad and little bit desperate.
He feels solid when I put my arms around him,
but he doesn’t return the embrace.
I wonder,
secretly, guiltily,
if he’s tired of us.
But when he smiles at Hawthorne his eyes crinkle at the corners
and I know he loves him.
It’s hot and humid and heavy
and I know he works hard,
that he’s worn down at a job
he’s too smart for,
that he works too hard for.
I’m not sweating but I feel tight,
worried.
I don’t know what to do for him.
Every thought, Shakespeare already said it.
Give me a sword; I’m good.
Sarcasm and snark keep me alive.
Never underestimate a small woman’s rage.
The open fields, the wooded tracts all but buried now beneath foundations and driveways, sidewalks and streets. Skunk, possum, raccoon gone. Coyote come at dusk to patrol the small lakeshore next block over, singing hymns of praise and triumph when they take a fat goose to dinner, bellies grumbling over rounded field mice. The neighborhood dogs, safe behind fences, are eager to meet the squirrels and rabbits seeking refuge.
bodisatvas
and desperados lined up
at the bus stop
their wheelchairs on the sidewalk
waiting for nothing
On Christmas,
He held my middle toe in his big hands and looked up at me saying:
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
And when I nodded, bath water dripped on his open forehead cuts.
From last night’s fight where he slammed his head into the door frame
until it bled and the wood cracked in resignation.
Drunkenly hoping to pass out, he was hoping to die.
But my stubbed toe still hurt and we both knew this was the only time
he’d see my naked body before I left him for the last time.
So I laid down and slept in our bed until it didn’t make sense
to keep my eyes closed any longer.
And the next morning, when I was finally far away,
Sitting on my boxed up, hoarded shit
I watched the sun rise over the ocean
and the only thing I really missed was the cat.
On Christmas,
He held my middle toe in his big hands and looked up at me saying:
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
And when I nodded, bath water dripped on his open forehead cuts.
From last night’s fight where he slammed his head into the door frame
until it bled and the wood cracked in resignation.
Drunkenly hoping to pass out, he was hoping to die.
But my stubbed toe still hurt and we both knew this was the only time
he’d see my naked body before I left him for the last time.
So I laid down and slept in our bed until it didn’t make sense
to keep my eyes closed any longer.
And the next morning, when I was finally far away,
Sitting on my boxed up, hoarded shit
I watched the sun rise over the ocean
and the only thing I really missed was the cat.
Magnets
He said his uncle had “spent his life.”
I loved him because he understood
the metaphor of each day a spent coin.
I loved him because he stripped away the rind,
seeing into the heart of things.
Broth condensed to its essence.
I looked to him as a dandelion
looks to the sun.
Because he spoke my truth
something inside me responded
like those black and white terrier magnets
from childhood, one spinning around
to align itself with the other.
My trifling with words, a like-long striving
to sing in tune with his song.
