Sunday spent at the ER haiku
nurse brings warm blankets
doors slide open IV stings
we are still waiting
nurse brings warm blankets
doors slide open IV stings
we are still waiting
I remember driving north from San Diego.
West of the highway, flames framed the ridge.
The wind blew from the sea
and we could breathe.
I remember hearing gunshots
and reading about the fight.
But we were the next block over,
in our backyard with friends.
I remember walking in my neighborhood.
Hard voices hurtled out windows into the night.
The houses looked all alike.
I walked on believing it was not my home.
And now Canada, pristine and pardoned,
roars in forked tongues that lick the sky
spits knives to our lungs, spues smoke
that rises to the atmosphere and spreads
like oil on water, touching everything
from the Atlantic to the Mississippi.
Was she tired of our polite pontification,
of our cocoon of sanctity that we are unconquerable?
I’m staying in the house til the sun goes down
and the lights turn on in this one horse town
when the lightning bugs all fly around
my burned yet pallid face.
I’m staying in the house so the moon can rise
and reflect her glow in my wondering eyes
while the backyard elves all plot surprise
for a morning dew of lace.
I’m staying in the house til the leaves all turn
and there’s no more lessons left to learn
and the road leads home where I always yearn
for a different kind of pace.
I’m staying in the house til I can’t hold still
and I crack the door of my own free will
and find the morning waiting still
in patient, peaceful grace.
Pain, joy, sadness,
the small alphabet of departure,
a deep well of tears,
your heart like a folded banket,
the name of a loved one hiding everywhere,
the funnels of want
inside the long heat, what pleasure—
a soft, petaled cheek
skin remembers—
the tender gravity of kindness.
The lit window of childhood
the house of muttering,
how the words ignite
the words under the words,
how the rooms heaved into silence,
rivery ripples carrying you back,
the soft hue of memory, moss green,
the train whistle’s ancient sound,
all my questions
What if? What if?
the ideas you carry close to your bosom,
folding into yourself
a secret pouch of listening,
hum of a dream deep inside you,
a soft place in the middle of the evening,
books to open and open and open,
the polished edge of
a rose curling up its petals,
a prayer spoke secretly.
You know what to do.
Carry the endless surprise of
sky and birds in your heart,
a sense of shifting
always rooted to
endless minutes of green.
Wake up filled with possibilities,
the borders you must cross
where memories rest in heaps.
The days are nouns: touch them,
stitch them together, slowly, slowly.
Worship the world of trees,
the clear breath of mountains,
crows roosting in trees—
black bags of darkness.
Bathe in the cool voice
of the moon speaking its own round name.
It’s hard to be a person
clenching and opening,
carrying tender spots.
Be deep water
opening up and up, amazed.
Name what doesn’t change.
Tell the truth.
We have all been saved so many times.
It’s late but everything comes next.
The whole sky says Your move.
Running through the sprinklers
daughters in tow, pigtails flying, barefoot on green
lush grass, no fear of stepping on yellow jackets.
At Heather’s birthday party, he shook the can and spritzed
white froth inside their open baby bird mouths giggling
as the froth spilled onto smiling faces.
Putting quarter after quarter into the slots
of mechanical painted horses in front of Kmart till
Holly stopped asking, “More Daddy!”
Feeding white bread crusts to the ducks with his girls
by his side on his only day off giving me a mommy
break as he chauffeured them to Jacobsen Park.
Holding hands Halloween night, marching them house
to house as they filled their pillowcases with Reeses,
Red Twizzlers, Milk Duds, wearing princess costumes,
Jessica Rabbit, or as a human Pom-Pom. Patiently he waited,
as they rang the doorbells shouting, “Trick or Treat”.
Beaming with pride, tapping his foot during band competitions
to the drum rolls, grinning holding flags for both high schools,
and spent Christmas Day watching band videos, his favorite gift of all.
Just wish he was here now
to spread his Boompa joy
with Joey, Nicholas, and Jaxson
his three grandsons.
Run, if you can
Hide, if you can’t
If neither, fight
But not to save you:
To save the next kid, the next hall
To give them a couple more seconds
To get there, to stop it.
I am a child, a teenager
But I am also a bulletproof vest
A diversion
A fighting chance for the others
Hope in the form of a distraction.
I am blood and flesh
But I need to be metal and fabric
Minimal casualties
Minimal children dead
Especially sports players
Or pretty girls
Or handsome boys
Minimal teachers and administrators
But, not none.
The Constitution doesn’t allow for none.
Or at least, that’s what they say.
That document is living
But will I be?
The linings of my veins
ached in the middle of a warfare of noises.
What was going to happen
rained down on my head.
I hadn’t wanted to find the man
hanging what he was dreaming
so that the air pulsed with color.
I was going home
from some basic misunderstanding.
Like a foreigner breathing,
seeds were moaning in the gardens.
I was so flooded with yearning
a spasm ran through me.
Light streaks striped Tom’s face.
I was out of luck, a china cup
in millions of bits, but happy
like a machine that polishes stones.
The sky didn’t have any air in it.
The earth was made of shadows
smelling one another’s butts.
And the Savior did come, but
right now he is, I think, in the state
prison in Colorado. Like the dead
coming back, a mist covered everything.
I felt the beauty, a deep thirst being quenched.
That world! These days it’s all brainless
angels bruised the colors of a tattoo.
Sunset danced on my despair.
The torn moon mended.
I was in love, enough to drink
for two hours. I staggered, clinging
to a book. Most days are crushed
breathless by something far away,
too beautiful, true in a fiery
and glorious way. I was born in
a story or a poem, word for word,
alive in a deeper sense,
coming back over and over.
Look in the mirror. Hah!
Wrecked cars. My bullet hole.
Nothing could stifle the blurry music
of rush hour absorbing the sounds of my steps
full of smoke and silences I didn’t want to hear.
My guts jumping with unintelligible words,
I heard lovely cries, music, messages.
I heard the world smolder
around its edges for a heartbeat.
There might be a place for people like us.
Mammoth hands rest casually on the wheel, steering our half-blind course
Droopy, lidded eyes in denial, growled “I’m good”s punctuate his silence
Biting my “Are we there yet?” tongue nigh on five hours, swirling worries abide
Rehearsal for the next four years… or five or ten of our co-signed life.
When can I quit this trip and finally rest and cheer from the sidelines?
Round snappy slices of dill pickles bob
in a bucket between us. My daughter,
barely two, knows of them from
her picture book “Let’s Eat.” Can I?
I nod, offer a bit of warning. She pops
one in her mouth, in a flash the briney,
salty, dilly flavors light up her senses,
her big brown eyes widen to twice
their size. Their bite sprints the network,
signals firing, to word and glossy picture.
Oh Hoh!
THIS IS A PICKLE?!
