LOW-DOWN
The art of noticing
makes me. High,
wake to the blue
moon nested sycamore
yonder, its bit of bright
recovering some good
dark from me.
A fly darts in my throat
Ruminating
I make myself sick
It rolls over me in waves
Just thinking about how grief has her in its clutches
A flash of red on the wind
And a heaviness in the air
All because of her
I long to make it better for her
What I wouldn’t give
To make sure she knows
When she laughs
The stars sparkle brighter
When she cries
The earth’s spinning stutters
When she leaves
She takes the music with her
to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to get off my ass and rearrange
the room regardless of who it will piss off
or inconvenience, and the wisdom
to know the continued refinement of my ability
to be happy despite is just my training to tolerate,
my warping to suffer for everyone else’s
convenience and comfort. Grant me the serenity
to embody that my experience of the world
is partly my experience and partly the world,
and they’re both up for critique and adjustment,
courage to say this is the deal, take it or leave it,
and the wisdom to see multiple avenues
to a new city. Grant me the serenity to remember
to walk outside and cry to the oak trees for comfort,
courage to light a house on fire if that is the only
way, and the wisdom to justify it all in court.
Grant me the serenity to put a lock on the door
and give out no duplicate keys, courage to expect
everyone to learn to speak my hybrid language,
as I always learn theirs, and the wisdom
to light the right candles when it’s dark.
Winding roads take her home
A place that carries the secrets of her past
Fear floods her heart
Thoughts of getting stuck in the heaviness weighing her down
Feeling the storm brew from inside
Destruction was its only guide
Yet there was time that this beautiful place
She holds so dear
The tenderness of raising her children
The laughter they shared, carefree days on the lake
Friendships built still ever present
Slowly she let gentleness take hold
Letting all the memories unfold
Stacked in piles and ready to be filed
No life is lived with perfection
The wind begins to fade
The storm within her heart will wait for another day
Today I finally washed my fancy black top—
lacy with sequins—that’s been on my night table
for a shameful length of time. I used to
dress up for my husband’s concerts, leave
the house with him after a quick supper
and end up in a concert hall painted
in broad, masterful strokes by Brahms,
Debussy, Elgar. If I admit he’s been retired
for two years, my procrastination shows
like a slip a bit longer than its skirt. And now
the sequins, studding a clean top, will hang
beside his tails even longer.
But there are jewels beyond the glitter
of the musican’s life, like the Towhee
egg I spotted today, cream with brown flecks
and as perfectly smooth as any number
of Schubert’s tunes.
At the funeral mass.
I’ve been down this road before
and the old tropes still hold:
magesterial vestments,
paradoxical liturgy,
patronizing patriarchy,
the blanket of cetainty thrown over
the wild mystery of death.
Yet there is no oblagation
in my attendance.
I come for the man I loved,
to honor the care he gave,
his warm embrace,
his keeping of the tales told
by the generations of our family.
I hesitate when I kneel then stand
then kneel again
and try to remember
the Liturgy of the Word.
Finally, settling into the comfort
of sitting still,
I begin to realize
how I love this service:
its musical magic of ethereal hymns,
its bread to eat and wine to drink,
its ritual of our common struggle.
The light it brings.
(Title from The Funeral by John Donne)
The scab is a little too
picked at to heal properly.
Even if I forget for a couple
of days, I still go back to it,
start messing with it and, before
you know it, I’m raw and
bleeding all over again.
Yesterday the driver in my neighborhood
(Rest his soul)
(I don’t think he’s dead but I do think he’s restless)
Picked up the cans with that hook arm
and threw them up to vomit their innards
then threw them down to think about what they’d done.
They lay there in a row of regret
while I looked on from the window, helpless and
feeling about the same – awakened at 2:30
by restless children with sore throats and having my turn.
Between the coughing and complaining
I spent the day flopping between distractions –
ordering food delivery, flipping incessant laundry,
inhaling videos of cake decorating,
rug cleaning and card readers who kept saying
someone is coming for you and My God, I thought,
I hope it’s not the trash man; I’ve been through enough.
Meet with a friend
you’ve known for life
and you’ll find a version
of yourself you may
have forgotten or don’t
want to remember until
something makes you both
laugh, lighting up a spark,
warming your soul, maybe
even cracking open memories
like clouds floating overhead,
obscuring sunshine for a moment,
until blue skies inspire rays
warming your skin tingling
with familiar heat, leaving
sunglasses perched on head
for eyes unmasked to see
yourself reflected in your friend’s
eyes, someone you misplaced,
revised, recreated yet still exists
