Squid Ink
The salinity of my tears
The salinity of my tears
I forgot to feed the middle tomato
the runt in the row of three, my mind
not what it used to be, the terrible
disease my mother has, we of a kind,
can’t deny the dire possibility.
The best I can do is try to move with ease
into a future without memories,
through these days that time will tease
were my good days, before I went downhill
staring through blank eyes at my wife and daughter
strangers, though even stranger still will
be wondering who I am — how laughter
and joy every minute of every day
while more and more of me slips away?
My little son plucks
eight of them – seven baby
pink, one purple as a bruise –
he plucks with good
intentions, plucks with love
for his mama, plucks
them from the neighbor’s
front lawn, leaves
them in a bouquet
on our doorstep, hopes
this gift will pluck the corners
of my lips into a smile,
but it only plucks at my heart
strings, because his face falls
when I have to break it
to him gently that not every
beautiful thing he sees
is his for the plucking.
I buy journals,
lots of empty journals,
knowing that I can’t die
until I fill them all up.
I have nothing to offer but
alarm blares
bleary-eyed, up and at ’em
Saturday be damned
I’ll feed and walk the dog
while you sleep off last night’s whiskey
so that you can enjoy your day off
and I can go to work
yet again
it wears on me
like fingernails on a chalkboard
like the droning of nature’s car alarm
you know, the one that only goes off every 17 years
but apparently lasts for 6 weeks without end
and the only buzz I have this morning
is from the dying flying red-eyed tree-rats
I know where the full moon drops,
where swallows chirp in the brush,
in whose yard the first snowdrops grow,
on which roof robins warm their toes,
where they bathe in spring,
where crows bury their scraps.