Distilling
time bends, air thickens
strawberry moon in my hand
waning & melting
every moment I’d given
distilling like antique rain
time bends, air thickens
I dropped my wine
Sabbath shattered its
I thought of my uncle
*Rashi was a medievel Jewish scholar.
There is a weight that sits on my heart,
an imperative that demands to be heard.
Create,
it says with its crushing insistence.
Create, and I will relent.
Create, or die.
So,
I write,
and the pressure lessons.
I sing,
and the load lightens.
I share,
and it’s as though I have wings.
Yes, now you see.
Create and live.
I have a running list of “take root” tasks
that cannot be begun until we know where
we’re living next.
Until then I drift, waiting
to be planted, growing top heavy
with ideas, dreams
spilling over like catmint
cascading down the pot, miniscuile
blue flowers a landing pad for bees,
roots constrained by a future yet to be
unlocked.
The scent of his cologne appears before
his ghost slides back into my space
twisting of bergamot and cypress vine finds
cracks in the window.
The ghost appears when least expected,
a text, a phone call, a post on Facebook,
a snippet of affection through regular mail,
even threads woven into pages of my poetry.
The last time he surfaced was after a long absence,
measured by full moons with many transitions.
It took me off guard, I was not ready
for a reconciliation, the sudden shift
in the atmospheric river announced his return
trailing whiffs of cedarwood.
I hid, I made excuses, I moved,
changed my number, shut down.
He always finds me, no cave too deep,
sipping coffee on a park bench,
browsing for books in a hidden country library,
hanging clothes between the silver poplars.
He rolls in on a cresting ocean wave,
a magic carpet of satins and silks,
powers in like a snowsquall blinding me,
a bolt of lightning dropping fire in its path.
Ash falls from the sky,
I listen to the echo of the whippoorwill.
Soothing nocturnal music
lulls me to sleep,
covered with the thick patchwork quilt
handstitched comfort embrace.
The skies clear, the Strawberry Moon,
hangs low, reminds me it’s just a dream.
Treasure among the cellophaned slabs
in the raised pit of raw meats:
mixed in among chicken breasts edged
with phlegmy yellow fat, pig knuckles, and packages
of ham hocks for seasoning slow-cooked green beans,
pork tenderloin for under three dollars a pound.
We come to pick through, to hold and gauge
the weight in our hands against the hunger
waiting at home. One people, some in church clothes,
some still in pajamas, engaged in rite primordial:
jostling to get at the prime parts of the kill.
Consider not the big trucks
rumbling through Butchertown,
resigned wet eyes peering out
from between the slats of the stock trailer.
Nor the squeal of the steel saw blade through bone,
the electrical outlet noses
floating in puddles of blood.
Or the leathery odor of feces and fear
emanating from the rendering plant
the wind diffuses across the city
like an aerosol portent.
Imagine, instead, peaks of mashed potatoes,
broiled kale, hungry mouths
seated around the common table,
some saying grace, some mid-argument,
the steaming roast on the platter uniting all,
how sonorous their grunting and belching,
how grateful they are to do the dirty dishes.
* * *
Yo, Adrian! We did it! At times grueling, at all times wonderful to read the fantstic poets and poems of LexPoMo. Thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my outbursts. Love this family.
I never let anything go
easy.
There is dirt caked between my toes
and orange peel nestled under my fingernails
from everything I’ve gripped too tightly,
scraping and clawing at every surface
as I leave.
I leave a bit of myself behind too,
each time.
Blood, sweat, and tears,
body, mind, and soul.
A submariner in World War II
They volunteered to work on a sub
If it took a hit, all went down together
Married his high school sweetheart
During the war, on shore leave
How could he leave her?
As babies, in their small New England town
Their respective mothers had put their babies in the same crib
When separated, the babies cried for want to be together
After VJ day, they settle down
He built a small house, in-law size
Where they started, now a family of four
Carpentry, his father’s calling
He had a knack for all things electric
Moved to California and began his trade
Master electrician, corporations soon found him
How long will it take? to fix huge machines
“If you listen the machines talk to you.”
Alaska called for cannery repairs
He liked it so he bought a fishing boat
Never straying too long from wife and family
Enjoyed the community of religion
Volunteer electrical work at the local church
Appreciated, honored, all for free
Outlived everyone – brothers, wife, friends
If you’re lucky you can visit
Though he may be busy, walking the driveway
At 102, still clear as a bell
Enjoy his lifelong stories
He asked on our last visit,
“What can I do for you?”
i
A book isn’t a body
because it can be returned.
Pages of rooms
we never entered:
moloko milk bars,
goblin fruit markets,
ships bearing four-armed poets,
flat countries where lines
can’t imagine being lifted.
In the hallways,
the cemeteries,
the parking lots,
in the labyrinthine elevator system,
we traveled without arriving.
At the airport lactation station,
you said you wanted me to have it
when you were finished,
and then you were finished,
and then I had it.
Exchange means
one person keeps one thing,
one person keeps something else,
and neither can prove
who has borrowed what.
ii
“We can’t see the whole thing,”
because if you’re standing in Flatland,
looking at a circle,
you can be correct about the circle
and wrong about the object.
The circle is real,
just not the whole shape.
The wound is real,
the longing and the absence are real –-
the story you’re currently
telling yourself may even be real.
But none of these things
guarantees that you’ve
apprehended the entire
geometry.
The possibility exists
that there are corners,
that there are dimensions
you haven’t yet perceived –-
that “otherwise”
might be a direction.
