Every time I write

I think she takes the pen

The girl you left

She was so young

My work gets disorganized

Too literal

I’m so accustomed to explaining the details

Used to breaking us down into bites

Until there’s nothing left to chew

I’ve practiced every step of your dance until my head has spun

I’m tired of it

Tired of rehashing this over and over and over again

I don’t want to keep singing the same tune

They say doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results is the definition of insanity

I’m ready to let go

Move on

And yet every time I write

I write about you

It works much better for my mythology
and my poetry
for you to remain frozen at thirty-one
sitting on the back patio of our casita
doing bong hits and reminding me, again, 
how the patriarchy has ruined your life
all the while plotting your escape from my gravity,
which was weaker than science predicted,

then to know of your trials
and the hardships you faced 
striking out on your own, 
how they differed from mine, 
how long before you could listen
to the Dead again, or bake cornbread, 
slow-cook pinto beans 
on a blue Sunday afternoon, 
how long before you took in a sunset
or made love, 
if your life was easier without me,
if it took more than a minute 
to move on?

  under some
  uncommon time
      to become

      ink fading
      in months
             toward
       invisibility

I’ll cut to the chase  so there’s no misunderstanding
I am not talking about God nor god  though I suspect that’s been assumed by you
reader  poetry’s design presumes we will go there  or is it There
goodness knows I’ve made past attempt
but words got lost in the meaning  or maybe it’s meaning in the words
so I leave that language in the string bag hanging from my desk chair arm

this morning all I know of light is the misted sunrise that’s obscuring my sense of step
the knowing where I put my foot that’s always been instinctive  shrouded now by this strange cottoned glow  as I carry my bowl  caution my steps  make my way to the bright ripe raspberries  half clinging to the vine

There’s this movie about a tragic family of wrestlers; you’d have loved it.
Toward the end, a character is sobbing watching his young sons roughhouse on the lawn;
One of them asks him what’s wrong, and he says, “I used to be a brother.” 
I think about you all the time.
I used to be your sister, then slowly I wasn’t, now I’m not, I guess.
You died so fast.

I want to tell our stories, but no one wants half
our broken story.
They already have stories.

Mom took really good care of your dog until he died.  
Not to get maudlin here, but he looked for you
every morning for the rest of his life.
Maybe he found you?
I’m desperate to ask you how it works,
the other side stuff.
Maybe you’re with all our grandparents 

On the Impossible Occasion When William Shakespeare went Skinny Dipping with Young Ernest Hemingway in 1937 Revolutionary Spain

This is a good place 
to camp Will, why are
you complaining?
I heard the Owl scream,
and the Crickets cry!
Well, the best liquor
to your health my friend
is caught in Spain
from a skin or from 
a flask—it makes me 
think of my little rabbit.
It is because of times
such as these we always
lived in these times
and she was always 
mine. Marry ’tis true! 
And marry is’t 
’tis true!  It is a fair
thought to lie between 
maids’ legs. Ha! Ha! Will
you’re drunk too. Fuck!
To hell with this bottle
of harbor scum. 
It would dissolve
a dead bull’s balls. Will—
Nothing’s been the same
since December 6th. 
Dad shot himself.  For sale:
young writer, no buyers— i’faith! 
tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and tomorrow creeps—
signifying nothing. List! List! 
O list! Remember, nothing comes—
And what Will?! And what?!
Are you fair? Should I despair?
Should I for a pair of kisses,
lick the floor, pinch a publisher’s
cheek? Call him my mouse?
Make him give out that 
I’ll crawl on the floor
and unpack my heart 
like a whore with words?
Is’t not monstrous?
‘Swounds! These words leap 
like marlin blue—wandering
waters jeweled, vaulting
o’er like Old Faithful.
Damn!
I’m talking like you Stratford
bastard! Fie on’t! Foh!
Howl! No! No! No! No! No! No! 
The ripeness is all, Ernest.
Will. Are you paying attention?
That’s what we do. We see
the pale ghost of a father,
fasting in fires,
until foul crimes are burnt
and purged away—he
smells like crisping boar flesh
on safari in Tanzania over a roaring
spit turning, the fat trailing and burning
the combined hairs of your forearm.
Yes, I ate my father last year Will,
I ate him at Kilimanjaro. 
And being married 
has always
made me thirsty—
gives me the lie as deep as
to my throat, my throat. 
When they bless our throats 
on St. Blaise’s Day I beg
for death. The small beers do it
every day. I’m confess an allergy
to cats, I’m allergic to women.
Will. Do you understand?
We have heard the chimes
at midnight, Master Hemingway.
Shall we repair thither to see
the rising of the sun from the sea?
For by my fay, I cannot reason.
Taken all in all, we shall sink
our fiery minds in the ease
of the raging salt tempest
beats the contracted brow 
of land declaring yea and nay
again—and swim free men.
Say you? Nay, pray you!
Mark me kind and worthy pioneer!
Will, I will follow down 
the hill into the water.  
Into the water,
where we will remove
our clothes. Then begin
to float. And float.  
My rabbit is on the shore 
crying out—Will—
will you sing songs for her?
For by my fay, I can no longer now.

i knew they were there

I forgot yesterday 
to contribute empathy.
Will I forget again?