EVE
All our mito-
chondria
comes
from
our mothers.
After work, the very air outside went still
From my car, out of breath, I drove for hours
waiting for the call to come. It never did.
In the weaning of the sun, sky edged orange
and the streetlight flecked on–a reminder
of time’s passing arc. That tomorrow would come
bright as anything and reset the sky over–
shoulder the waiting for just one more day.
Absolutely, here’s a haiku for you:
Morning dew glistens,
On silent petals it rests,
Daybreak’s soft whispers.
the old photos freeze you into when.
I imagine Christmas with warm comfort
and discoveries, the train endlessly circling
on the bedroom floor, poison pellets
making smoke from the locomotive;
the new books, exploring the Pacific
with Hyerdahl, World War II with Churchill
(the young people’s version of war
sanitized);
the chemistry set with only
one experiment that really worked—
something with changing colors;
Nonna’s nativity, dozens of hand-
painted figures plucked from Tuscan
hilsides all facing the bambino;
her hi-fi (a prize won at a festival)
playing Fred Waring’s carolers
through the speaker on the front porch
where you strung lights, one white
light placed carefully over the house number;
Dad’s grocer’s oranges filling the stockings
like an afterthought with those dark nuts
we could never crack.
I must tell you now:
these are all gone.
Now we’ll find the comfort together.
Fears feel the same, each comfort is new.
You are locked in black and white.
I have found a key to colors.
No wonder his body suffered
a decade-long auto-immune disease,
his body attacking itself, joining
the assaults of the world.
I know something of this pain,
growing up in a strict religious
environment and abandoning
that community and teachings.
An outcast for so long,
he grew from a place of torment
and out of that wringer emerged
a seasoned wisdom.
Now he speaks with the tenderness
with which you’d greet a newborn.
The crinkly smile lines around
his eyes have seen it all.
Mirrored Chrome
Smell of gas
Squeal of tires
Thrill of the pass
Muscle and grit
Rev it up
Punch the gas
This ain’t no hybrid stuff
Retro-fitted seat belts
“Hold on tight”
“Wanna go for a drive?”
“Think I just might”
Warm summer sunshine
Wind in my hair
“There’s a car show down the road”
“You can take me there”
I hear the gravel crackle
As we turn in to park
There’s cars in the lot
And cars displayed on the yard
I crank up my window
And use muscle to shut the heavy door
Check my reflection in chrome
It’s time to explore
Sun beating down
Oldies blasting
Shiny enamel
People laughing
“Belonged to my Pappy”
Each car has a story
“It purrs like a kitten”
“I bought it when I turned 40”
“The interior is as clean as a whistle!”
“What’s it got under the hood?”
“I believe the ’72 model is superior”
“Dang! That ride looks good!”
“Look at those wheels”
“That one’s got a nice exhaust”
“She’ll run a 12 in the quarter”
“How much did that cost?”
Chevelle SSs, ‘Cudas, and ‘Vettes
Makes and models, row after row
Monte Carlos and Mustangs
Camaros, Chargers, and GTOs
Judges and gawkers
Fun license plates
Sleek lines, themes, and medals
Folks from out of state
Trophies are awarded
The cars wait at the gate
White smoke burn outs
The perfect summer date
There might come a day
when you can’t pronounce
the words I love you:
Even to yourself,
even as a friend.
I hope that I may hope,
while time seals a wound
it could never fully heal,
someone has given you
something precious I could not.
Grace moves through the trees
Rustling leaves on its way to caress my cheek.
Demanding birds, loud as your mother’s voice
Calling you home to dinner.
Lungs full of fire.
Then, exhaling Holy Breath.
Surrounded by buildings
That never had a blink of rest,
I feel green inside
Wondering how anyone
Could fall in love with the chaos.
I stand as a mere pebble,
Grimacing at the stars
That are mostly shielded from the night.
They look about half as bright
And twice as small.
I glance at the indentions
My nails have left in my palm,
Wondering if I was ever capable
Of loving at all.
Don’t hold back
The sucker punch
Only works once
Then the surprise is gone
The fix is in
It’s lights out
And the bell’s rung
Down for the count
No more bob and weave
It’s too late.
Just say it
Before it cuts
A hole in your gut.
