Origin Story
The night your mother and I made you
the moon shined so bright
it ignited every scrap of love
strung across the room.
The roots she’d stewed,
the chair I’d fixed,
our sweat dripping,
infusing exhortation.
The night your mother and I made you
the moon shined so bright
it ignited every scrap of love
strung across the room.
The roots she’d stewed,
the chair I’d fixed,
our sweat dripping,
infusing exhortation.
Cheers to you
For tossing me a ball
For accompanying me to the Ball
Cheers to you
For not getting mad at all
When I drew a picture for you on the wall
Cheers to you
When I needed to get out of jail, you were my call
And on the day, you gave me a way, and you stood tall
Cheers to you
No matter how far away, you will always be my all and all
Cheers to you Dad
Empty
One day I fell on my head.
I got to my feet my heart missing no beats,
even body and mind seemed quite fine.
With my senses intact I went right back
to the daily grind of mothering, farming and riding equines.
A few weeks later my world went blank,
a seizure maybe, you’ll be fine, one doctor said,
but the mother board was an erased slate.
Thoughts became empty space,
a newfound way to meditate.
So now, when I long to escape I don’t hesitate
to climb inside the silence of my mind,
snuggle in its little nest where I find solace and rest.
We discuss who breaks first
rack the balls
they slam back then forwards
and knuckles are jammed into the last row
to ensure a good spread
The bartender said she recognized us
you got two beers,
drank them over the hour we played
I got a sugar free energy drink,
slammed it before you finished the first beer
Your plant just got its first bud
“If I grow some nasty purp
you have to smoke it”
you said at your 21st
wish I could just take a sip or toke
but that’s not me
My baby brother took the name Angelo
My other brother took the hunting cap
I found my father crying in the living room
“It’s your Nonnino.”
Nonno helps a cousin learn to read
While Nonnino seems happier than ever
in a brand new wheelchair
Nonnino smiles more than usual
I wish to myself this isn’t a bad omen
When among the things
You’ve lost
In this world
Are your father
And your only child.
She told me about the dream
as the sun blew holes in darkness,
how I said, “It’s okay. I’m a monk,”
while we tried to sleep on the train,
bumping knees as we tossed and
turned in the rocking silver tube.
We told each other many privacies,
things reserved for therapy sessions,
our trust cemented in ten minutes
of instinct, believing what we saw.
When your ride came, you asked
for a hug before I could say the words.
For now, this is my monastic cell:
a narrow, thin mattress, one window,
a tiny desk for the lamp, my suitcase.
Even the tv is small, black-and-white,
so unlike my life should I choose
to change its course from the past.
(after the photograph, “Room 125, Westbank Motel, Idaho Falls, Idaho, July 18, 1973,” by Stephen Shore)
