Three moons vie in a washed-out sky, different
in phase and size, but lit by the same
star. Three coiled arms snake from the cephalic
center of a triskelion, its eye
watchful as Hecate at the forking
road. Blood-red wake robin
and woad-blue spiderwort triple-triple
the garden with sun-yellow flag. Nimble the tongue
not tripped by the three-toed tree toad.
ETTERS TO THE DEAD: NINE
Kevin: (1952 – 1993)
Last time you were in Kentucky there was an earthquake.
Imagine, you came 2500 miles from that ever-shaken California
to be greeted by cup chatter, glass rattle & chimney fall.
Wherever you went things seemed to be on the move.
I never knew that Reebok made a sneaker called METAPHORS ™
I also never knew how many letters could be stuffed into a shoe box.
There must be a hundred correspondences between you and mom
in that aptly named cardboard container now on my writing table.
You were assiduous in your writing, quotidian, yet truly eloquent
in addressing the hard truths of dealing with an HIV positive life.
The hour is growing late. I have so much to say but it can wait.
We have the rest of my life. Even before aids you were drifting
towards Buddhism, so I will close with a ditty from the book
“Stick Tight Man.” Your brother, Jim ********************************************************
Buddhism
how much easier
than a blood stained swatter
it is
to come gently
to the door
and slowly
open the screen
to let the fly
find a way out
