letdown
there is a nest in my chest
where some folding of you
used to fit, and I would cradle
and cut the draft that winded you
with my tattered twigs.
one day, it wasn’t enough
I just tipped
and you fell out
yolk, shell, and all.
You are beginning to forget
the feeling you once had
to eat and not think about the effect
food will have on your body.
People slide a filter
on top of your life
once they discover you have
diabetes;
your weight is suddenly
understandable
and every choice while eating
comes under scrutiny.
They assume you do not exercise
and enjoy three times the recommended
sweets.
They do not even care
that there are different types of the disease,
different origins, different causes.
Those people know the relative they had
who lost a leg after years
of self-abuse and shame,
and they equate your reality
with theirs.
Even if you do follow
at least one or two of the stereotypes,
those ideas repeat inside your head
the longer you keep yourself alive,
the very chemical you knead into your flesh
adding to the proof others claim
as evidence of your unwellness.
Others don’t see the days
you clawed back against malaise
or the times you could have lain barely conscious
but chose to give others your energy instead
or the nights you cannot sleep
worrying that not even a seizure
will wake you up the next morning.
You may have been
marked for death
at age twelve,
but that story was one
you did not follow either.
cultivate: worship, till,
pray for hands steady
enough to hold the bread
to break among companions
who receive it, who eat,
cultivate, worship, till
the Earth between storms,
when it receives the plough
as God receives the prayer,
willing but waterlogged,
turning up blood, roots, stone:
communing with the mud of us.
The morning breathes its bluewhite smoke
into my eyes—slicks past my apartment
You learn to forget it: the hum and flicker.
By 40–I promise and promise,
When she is playing the organ
the theatre becomes more beautiful
It’s like a Czechoslavakian cookie box
from the late 1800s
A whole orchestra in her hands
today my youngest son
followed my instructions
and listened
with the hot sun blaring down
insects wailing
in bright green trees
greasing the orange Kubota
thousands of dollars
equipment of my landlord’s
that I use daily
to make sure his farm
keeps running
even though his vision isn’t
he sat in a brown folding chair
under the shade of the barn
watching my son and I talk
I wondered what he was thinking
a father who wished
to go back
and do more than he did
or a tired old man
thankful that someone
a younger
took up a thankless
backbreaking mantle
that his family
avoided
They were not just off-brand Oreos. They were filled with hugs,
not just sweet cream. A cookie traced with lace,
both vanilla and chocolate. She kept them
in a clear bear container, friendly for a visit to the kitchen.
A fridge that held my long-distance letters, displaying
special stickers. Pictures of family,
reminding me that she
never forgot;
She always loved me.
It was not just off-brand Oreos; there were
collector plates,
a skylight pooling
through the afternoon,
and each room was blessed
with Jesus,
nailed on the cross. Always looking after me
as my bare feet patter onto the blue carpet
then transition to the kitchen,
knowing Grandma would follow.
We would “find” the off-brand Oreos. A plastic bear
containing tasty treats,
filled with cream.
I held the empty sweetness in my mouth.
Hush, she seemed to say,
and handed me one more cookie.
That was never generic to me.
In late winter of 1960
I went with my little brother
to stay with (Grand) Ma and Aunty
at the Thomas Jefferson Apartments.
We both had the mumps
and were being isolated
from our baby sisters, we slept
head-to-toe on the raggedy couch
and Ma fed us chicken broth,
sometimes it was so hard to swallow
she gave us drops of the paregoric
Dad had left with her.
The drag of those four days
was interrupted by a snow storm,
it was so cold that salt wouldn’t melt
the ice off the sidewalk. We were stuck,
my brother was crying to go home,
Ma made me say the rosary with her,
Aunty was wringing her hands.
I wished I was with my older brothers
sledding on our snow packed street.
I covered the kitchen table
with my blanket to make a private cave
where I could look at the Life Magazine
I snuck out of Dad’s pile in our living room
and hid in the book bag with my Hardy Boys.
I was eleven and intrested
in Marilyn who was on the cover:
her deep cut black sequined dress,
her back to the front,
her head turned to the left,
her heels kicked up to the level of her butt,
her soles whiter than her exposed spine,
whiter than her blondie hair,
whiter than the snow outside
I didn’t know why this view of her behind
was so exciting. Why did I have to hide
to look at it? The small kitchen was hot,
I seemed to be spinning across a great expanse
of pure white snow.
Then, there I was, back under the table.
I could hear Ma praying, Aunty fussing,
little brother slightly snoring. I wanted
to grab Marilyn, go outside and
slide with her under the highest drift
behind the Thomas Jefferson Apartments.
What did I miss?
Did I miss?
I missed.
Dismissed.
What did I miss?
Well, I missed an opportunity
to obtain something
that could help me
with future course work.
The timing was tight,
requiring travel to another city.
Things didn’t go as planned.
I forgot the pickup.
I forgot to follow up.
To keep frustration
from ruining my evening,
I asked myself,
Did I miss?
Or, was what escaped my mind
actually protection?
Did it matter
if I didn’t get it?
Would I still be blessed
to get it taken care of?
I realized
emotions are okay to feel.
I did miss.
I missed a window.
I inconvenienced someone.
I asked for an extension.
When I reached out
about the opportunity,
they said
they gave it
to someone else.
I asked
if they had another recommendation…
(Crickets)
Dismissed.
hare hare
