in the heat of the garden
my gut chirps up towards me to say
“surely this must be the worst of it”
i pull another weed with sore ripe fingers
and whisper back
“even if it isn’t, we’ll be fine”
i repeat myself so often,
i’m not sure if it’s become mantra or delusion.
i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick
don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it
we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine
the ship feels different down here
no windows, stale air,
heat from the engines,
the stink of men who bathed
three months ago
we’ve not seen the captain
since November
reckon Thanksgiving and Christmas have long passed,
by now–who knows?
hard to remember fresh air,
blue skies, wind,
the sound of birds,
clean skin, food that is not
spoiled, laughter
truth is the assholes above us–
we hold their lives in our hands,
but they don’t give a fuck about us
on the lower decks
most of us, covered in burns,
mostly deaf from the machines,
eyes red and burning,
clinging to some woman we knew once,
long gone from everywhere
but our brains
not sure we’re human anymore
feel more like a part of the machine,
each of us a single cog, not worth
a halfpenny
i had a dog, once–
and a home with windows
and a wife
one day, in a foul mood,
i kicked that dog
the look he gave me–
weak, defeated
that’s me now
He never fit with
misfits but at least
they let him tag along.
Academics always thought
him rash, radical. Radicals
figured him a redneck.
Rednecks reckoned he
was highfalutin, while the
well heeled held him
as a common sod.
Religious folk scorned
his hedonistic joy, but
the party crowd
considered him a prude.
He never meant to be rude.
He did what he could.
He wondered how they
felt, being understood.
among those sleeping
half-drowning from
the deceit delivered
lungs so full
that they move as
trees heavy with leaves
in a weak wind
knee-deep and mired
in the filth
it’s hard
to remember
what it was
like before
but even
what it was like
still wasn’t
any better
it was just
easier
to ignore
the poverty
the anger
and ignorance
We are at a knobby-kneed crossroads-
sharp elbows and words,
shaggy hair and creaky voice.
Ghostly glimmers of the former child
the sweetness faded,
determination waxing.
Your games are serious, planned, precise-
innocence lingers,
you are uncertain, but strong.
An insight both profound and naive
puts me in such awe,
so proud of who you will be.
we have forgotten
what the earth would teach,
that not just sun and soil
feed a flower,
but stillness and patience too,
quiet faith in constant things,
the stars steadfast with their light,
the unhurried rhythm
of suns and seasons.
we have forgotten that our days
are only numbered
if we count them.
There is something delicious
and essential about the love
that won’t quiet itself –
that won’t be silenced and calmed
no matter how many blankets we pile on top.
One last ember we stoke and guard.
A memento.
An artifact.
A proof that our hearts have beaten.
We savor it – make a meal on the memory.
We tend to the space it has taken up
in the cavities of our body.
We offer it as a gift.
A tribute and an honor
to the one who put it there.
This – I do in remembrance of you.
This belongs to you.
You exist here.
You were cherished.
You were important.
And why do we sit and treasure
these scars and lacerations on our memories –
single them out for inspection and delicate handling?
Because they are also a tribute and reminder
that we too exist.
We can cherish.
We are important.
A cloud drifted across the sun for a second,
shifting the summer’s light in the room
to melancholy winter’s when the sun meanders
just above the treeline,
a reminder that days grow shorter,
gain momentum toward an unspoken ultimatum
between all this: gestures to empty room
(filled with books and a computer on a desk with a chair)
and companionship found not in this house
for colder days bathed in muted light.
Before the Trilafon
wiped away the last shred of her personality
making her placid
easy to manage
without passion
void
her mind wiped clean
like the blackboard
in her fourth fgrade classroom
at the end of the day
my mother’s demntia
led her through wild mood swings
now in fear
appearing as a horseman of the apocolypse
again as love
infinite and unconditional.
One night
as she wrestled with the demons
of memory long repressed,
she cried out in anguish
as if a sin were being confessed
stained like the blood on the depth of her soul:
“I have Indian blood in me!
I have Indian blood in me!”
Some time passed, but before
the Trilofon washed over her mind,
carried her away to that dark sea
without memory
She smiled sweetly to me
“You’re Steve.”
And your name?
“I’m Edith”
And then in some far corner of her mind
she found this fragile flower:
“Well, we know who we are,
but it seems like we don’t know much else.”
Maybe that’s enough, mom.
Maybe that’s enough.
Nov 14, 1997
