Whispers of the dead reach my ears

Those insatiable in life are still hungry

I miss the touch of their hands, of tears

Shared over memories that bound us

Their echoes offer a fading palimpsest

As they withdraw, leaving only traces

Of a word said, a look that said more

The tinge of jasmine they loved

Time whirled around us as if it would

Last forever. It is not until they are

Gone and I am still here that I

Consider what comes next

Earth devours what remains as we

Sink into the great mystery, returning to

Where we come from within the glow

Of starlight as it passes into infinity

(After “Bloodland” by Brigids Grove)

My breath becomes lodged in my throat
Like the stale drag of a Marlboro cigarette
As I listen to the voice on the other end of the phone
911   What’s your emergency?
My mouth opens but the words are held hostage
911 What’s your emergency?  

I stare blankly at the phone     lips trembling       
My jaws unlock      words rush free
My body is trying to kill me  

Excuse me?
The dispatcher asks
As if trying to decipher a cryptic code  

I draw a deep breath before answering
Begging my nerves to keep silent  

My body and I have been in an abusive relationship for years
I was gutted like a fish      sliced open with a scalpel
Entrails removed     a damning tumor had taken residency in my liver  

My body is left with rotted umber marks
A jagged scar begins under my breasts   
Winds to my belly       like the volatile currents of a river 
Reshaping the landscape of my stomach  

In a calm tone that betrays what my body feels
The 911 operator says
I am dispatching the EMS and police to your address
Remain on the phone until they arrive
Tell me what is happening now     

I’m fighting fatigue
I’m fighting anxiety
I’m fighting mounting medical bills
I’m fighting the pretense that I am ok  

I see the units are pulling onto your street
They are now approaching your door
You may let them in and disconnect our call
Help is there 

I think we’re done. Sometimes brevity
is part of the gift. The perfect meal,
if you eat too long, becomes
an ailment. The best vacations
are the ones that end just before
they cease to nourish.

We have been an adventure
for a time, an unbidden generosity,
campfires and crag days, such
a kind surprise, but your destination

has always differed from mine. I need to pull
my hand free. Our paths ought to split
here in this clearing,
where we are still astonished
by how much goodness
there has been.

by using that cream that gets rid of wrinkles
by getting that plan that covers car repairs
by having that procedure done on your knee

it worked for her dad
it worked for that rapper
it worked for that golfer

what are you waiting for?

My mother loved salad bowls,
all shapes, sizes, textures, origins
made of woven wood, acacia,
mid-century designs with teak, smooth curves,
lathe turned, black walnut, red oak,
the treasured mahogany.
Porcelain with delicate flower blossoms,
vined ivy edging, trimmed in gold.
Fluted melamine with pressed folk art scenes.
Clay, earthenware heavy cylinders
with spattered blue glaze, sponged or brushed,
dripped or blown.
Most of her collection came from flea markets and yard sales.
I use a different salad bowl each time I prepare and relish a salad,
greens, endive, kale, red cabbage
cushion black olives dancing around the rim,
summer tomatoes with chopped basil and spearmint
soaked in stone milled oil dappled with memories of my mother.

the morning is a spring cerulean

the baby twists, he is still sleeping in

my sister smelled of Johnson’s powder

chestnut swirl, coffee cold on the counter

I’d never chosen to carry someone

tiny clothes hang, hold space for a son

when he is two, his hair’s white in the sun

and Mom counts her coins, stretches the dollar

the morning is a spring cerulean

regret can eat you, leave your bones clean

we say ‘squeeze, squeeze’, skin our knees when we run

then they are tall, hug someone else harder

and you are proud, but quiet in a corner

years are dice, doesn’t matter what’s chosen

the mourning is a spring cerulean

Let the dream be written twice

and the love once

and the loss forever turning

its shadow over brass.

He sits at a busy street corner
cardboard sign propped against his backpack
Homeless, Broke and Hungry.
He sits with legs stretched out
crossed at the ankle, skin tan
like any other tourist.
He’s engrossed in his book
and never looks up at passing cars.
His attitude–come to me
if you’re interested–
not for me to plead.
He wears a Patagonia jacket
and eats peanuts as he turns the pages.

I never knew you, only of you
from my mother, who you terrified and
my grandmother who you bore and ignored.

Most called you trash, brash and cold
Full of piss and vinegar.
“She ain’t no count.”
“Rode hard and put away wet.”
Empty and hollow, hard-hearted and cruel.

I found your picture in my mother’s things.
One picture, likely the only one.
In black and white staring into the lens
High cheek boned and leather skinned
Wearing some man’s dark overcoat.

Others saw callousness, I see it too
But I imagine a different story

Hard-heartedness born of fear 
Weariness from a life of scrapping 
And conforming, alone in your anguish
To find a way to    just     stay     alive.
Used and discarded again and again.

From a place where meanness begat meanness
You had no one to show you what 
Love looked like.
How love, once held in your open hands
Could then be offered to others
To sons and daughters, your daughters

Tecumseh Valley’s Caroline
Was a daughter of a miner
And the sun once walked beside her
You are so much that Caroline
Your sun darkened
By all the hate inside you.

I, third generation from your tragic song
See you differently, dear rawboned Caroline.
Mother of my mother’s mother
Without you, and your strength and your will
I would not exist
A living testament to your grit
Passed to your daughter to her daughter
        and then to me.

Fare thee well, Tecumseh Valley

“Tecumseh Valley” – Song by Townes Van Zandt