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How large the dark is
tonight, how soft the rustling
of its sleek black wings.
I went for a walk around
the neighborhood one night,
cigarette to stifle the words
I wanted to say to my then-wife,
a pickup truck full of yahoos
coming up the one way
the wrong way, coming toward me.
Because I was in a mood, I gave them
a look as they went past;
the driver hit the brakes and a man
hopped out of the bed with a baseball bat.
He joined me on the sidewalk,
slapping the bat against his hand,
said, C’mon, boy
stretching boy into something
sordid and foul. He said
C’mon boy. What are you going to do?,
in the same tone some men use
when bullying their wives,
or to heckle their kids for
being fat or falling down.
It’s been twenty years
since that night, one marriage done,
the second in progress, and there are times
when I’m tasked with standing up for myself
that I can hear his voice,
the laughter as I ran down the street,
my hot shame like a parrot on the shoulder.
Time heals wounds, they say, but some fester,
open sores that won’t close proper
until this life offers some chance for redemption,
some four-alarm fire to walk through
to save the pitiful cat.
is romantic in love songs
but miserable in real life
when you’re just trying
to get your groceries
to your car especially
when gale force winds
drive the rain down
and sideways and up
while thunder bangs
and lightning draws bright
white lines from sky
to ground and you walk
through water ankle-deep
and you know you won’t
be wearing those sandals
again for three days at least
and you’re wet down
to your underwear and you
can’t see out of your
rain splattered glasses
and you just want to get home
dry off, put on clean clothes
never go out again.
Saturday at the marina,
what a beautiful day.
Sunny and warm
as the band begins to play.
The music is upbeat
and some sing along.
Heads are bopping
to a Jimmy Buffet song.
Saturday at the marina
and day turned into night.
The moon has risen
and the lake mirrors its light.
The beers are flowing
as the crowd starts to swell.
Laughing and dancing
to the song Rebel Yell.
It’s Saturday at the marina,
the band says good night.
People begin leaving,
to the servers’ delight.
sat upon the broken wall
still- from fine living
even though she cannot see-
pointed fire into sky
blackened- making eye contact
seen through a gown of gauze.
whopper ploppers
spinner baits
& top water frogs
the language of anglers
is a foreign one
however thanks to my father
I am becoming fluent
Everything was hidden by crisp
cottons & mohair cardigans that I could stretch
over my little-bit-too-big stomach & down
below my kneecaps. One
time I ripped the rear
seam of my madras shorts, my back
side & underwear exposed. I shuffled
from Dairy Queen straight home, five
slow blocks. I crouched down to pull
my sweater past my bottom & as I
waddled I revealed not one
fleshy patch of bottom. My mom
was over 70 the first time
I saw her breasts. I eased her out
of her lacy Maidenform after
the surgeon removed an acorn-sized
tumor. With a yellow
striped dish towel I wiped
her back to the tailbone, sponged
her underarms. They brought
to mind the tenderness of a sliced
peach. “I hate for you to see this,”
she confessed. But I was secretly
overjoyed. She was finally human
to me & I was taking care of her.
did you see it?!
4:09am full-skirted billowing
chiffon-haze
tucked into the arms of the elm in the cemetery
dipping back
a choreographed tango
as sun approaches
tapping its shoulder asking for this dance
