Sometimes when it rains
on a a soft hazy evening–
the trees become a canvas,
all the greens smear into sky–
a green, crayons cannot capture,
a name no one can come up with.

Rain falls from one leaf
to another as if a zillion tiny 
invisible pitchers are filling
the entire world
a tall glass of water .

Birds chat
whistle, chirp–
they know the rain
will last through the night.

Louder, louder the rain spills
over falls
and falls,
a flash of lightening
cracks open
the end of an overcast day,
thunder growls.

You think you have time 
You don’t 
Despite the overwhelming evidence 
I denied 
I just so badly wanted more 

More stories 
You had one for every place I’d ever been 
Now when my travels conclude 
I’m left to wonder 
What your punchline would’ve been 

I can still hear you calling somebody a son of a bitch 
I’ll wear pajama pants on Christmas 
I’ll tell stories 
I’ll cling to the advice you’ve given me 
Gotta keep going, kiddo
The best I’ll ever get 

So I will 
But by God, holy shit 
The trip won’t be half as fun
Without you here
Sharing in it 

I’ll keep notes
Maybe even practice a bit 
So when I get to where you’re going 
I can tell you stories 
You can fill the punchline in 

They might not have told me your cause of death
even before the autopsy regardless of if they already knew
because the words would’ve sunk with double weight.
My mother’s whispers cracking like hit drywall, I know 
she sees me in you. She sees a dead child. 

You can visit the basement spare room anytime, knocking
with the wisteria, find the paintings and TV you left safe.
I never remember how we’re related, not that we ever held
a conversation. I ask which sister your mother is, who to pin
the wings of my condolence to. I know she is dying now.

I’m seeing my future, 30s if I make it, in the twisted mirror 
of a Google search, clawing for a face to put a name to,
pan out a mugshot that looks uncanny alike to my father.
I think it’s a blood thing, brainfold, that’s killing us, not
that I wouldn’t blame whatever you took on a tangible level. 

I hope nobody knows why I’m crying for you. I’m horrifically
selfish. Stunned silent in my mother’s rainfall, then grasping
my father’s stiff shoulders because he is silent too, at first. 
We never hug. But you’re dead now. And the universe’s
apportionment is either poor or poignantly timed, in choosing.

I made do when my Mother’s suffocating Love nearly took my breath away
I made do when I was 40 days old fighting for my life in an oxygen tank
I made do every weekend when my Father’s gambling addiction took him off to the races
& Welte’s smoke filled Lo Ball Card Rooms in South San Francisco

I made do when I survived my Mother’s family’s incest, the secrets, & violations, too taboo to talk about
I made do when my love & expression of ART was organized, parochialized, categorized, rolled up in a green oil cloth
I made do when I was taken off stage & had to give my wooden shoes to a cuter, petite, 2nd grade classmate who lived in a bigger prettier house, smiled wider, braids thicker

I made do when I was fat, wore glasses & knew all the answers
I made do when I joined a competitive synchronized swim team & my best was not blue ribbon best
I made do when I fell in the lower half of the bell curve in a private girls’ school where they all played smarter than me

I made do when I D’ed out of Chemistry & French & took Spanish instead
I made do when my typing 90+ wpm’s financed my fours years of college
I made do each and every time He dumped me for her ~ & I kept pushing that door I thought I had to open ~ even though it always remained shut!

Patient presents with epidermal splitting
Patient was taken to the operating room
and placed in supine position.
The first incision was made with a Bosch jackhammer.
Bleeding vessels were carefully cauterized with little orange cones.

God damn it.
I swear this city is always doing road work.
Maintenance is an ongoing forever-process
Kicking up dust and blocks of asphalt
Inserting rebar into wet concrete

Apartments with bad air conditioning and worse humidity
Mold growing into the damp corners of your chest
Patient whines and asks to be taken care of.
Patient requests to be given more morphine.
Patient request denied.

El Greco (Doménikos Theotokópoulos), View of Toledo, ca. 1610.

Before
    Bones become brine
    Looking back becomes a crime
    Mercy meets Leviathan’s maw
Before
    Reckoning rears recklessly
    Driving denizens indoors
    Avaunt or Drown! becomes law

Chance
An Iota of light
the way, looms

After dusk lays its blanket,
and the birds chirp good night,
a chorus of insects
announce it is night.

Two times my Jesus year
is two-thirds a devil year—66
and month 6 for that unholy trinity,
though I have crested the peak
and I am sliding on over to yet another year
that at 33 I could never have imagined,
but here I am combatting all the same
deadlies now as then—envy, gluttony,
an occasional foray into pride. My sins
are those of too much, not too little.
Proactive sins. Not sloth,
though I stretch out my legs
on this porch swing, coffee at hand,
contemplating the best of the days,
the labor and sorrow,
how they fly,
as the psalmist said.
A tale that is told.
I am aiming myself toward gratitude
for all the ways this aging body
carries me through
the length of my days.

You don’t have to be alone –
you can live with me.
I imagine you sitting lonesome,
lost in the TV.
Seldomly looking over
when she isn’t where she should be.
You can open up
and you can always speak 
what’s on your mind
or of a distant memory.
You don’t have to be lonely
and it’s OK to grieve.
I can tell you loved boldly,
and that love rubbed off on me.