when we found the snake skin
outside the windowsill
mamaw told us to keep it shut
until the next blood moon
‘stops the devil cold’ she said
then crunched into an apple
and walked away

When I first moved here,
I noticed such a grand lady,
she graced a slight rise by the road.

A round turret, mullioned windows
rounded lapping shingles, like scales.

I asked some questions of our new friends- 
some recalled events, even a ballroom,
I imagined window seats and a sweeping bannister.

She had been empty for years, patiently fading
suprisingly intact, hidden a bit in trees and vines.
I always smiled to see her popping up over the rise.

Dove gray tiles of the slate roof, windows winking
Pastel paint faded but the constrasting colors still showed

We saw the property was sold, and
the wrecking machines quickly came.
I was too new and shy to ask to see her
before she came down.

She was razed to the ground in a day,
nothing built to replace her, just cleared land.

I can’t say for sure now on which rise,
which turn of the road, she stood.

I married her grandson
that perfect blue eyed angel

I told him we had to post
every now and then, for grandma

turns out none of us are angels
even if grandma says it’s so

I had to unfriend grandma
six times

one for each account
she accidentally created

my preemptive armor

against the heart emojis
and double exclamations

I can’t unsee
her unsteady fingers

chasing me
through the ipad

you look so great
I miss you

may the Lord bless you
and my grandson

I wish you could have
made it work

my beautiful
granddaughter

In the
hope we talk soon;
there is the yellow glow of a lemon
and a horde of jumping mice,
what will be will be
and loving at twenty-two,
everything and nothing
but a gun full of blanks.

When
I bought your Christmas gift;
crushed, between cars, perhaps a deathwish
while I wait for you,
the mirrors and the howling
and is it really you?

And then
I saw you the day before
              for the first time in three months;
it was a kind of heaven
where I shouldn’t cry over what is done,
the ghost of you shadowed the moon
and it’s it’s it’s the third but not final,
but not last.

All the while
I wonder if you’ll ever listen to these.
Sometimes I wonder further
if I’ll ever send them.

on the ridgeline. But maybe
I’m being dramatic. 
    
    I do know that at the very
    least, mist on the ridgeline
    sits me criss-cross-applesauce
    in my limbic system
            and its perpetual
            pitch, yaw, and roll.

But let me say it anyway.

It all starts with mist
on the ridgeline
and ends with me
        threshed
        hulled
        pitted
                by the creek.

A year and a half ago
exposure therapy 
to quell the storm
and allow myself 
to witness the subduction
of my old ways

I don’t have to fight myself

All that needs to be done is
to steady my hands 
beside myself on the riverbank
feel the stones basking in the sun 
listen to the swishing tree branches
watch the waters flow and sweep

not to clean
but to move along

I hope you get into heaven 
if you do I hope I make it too
You owe me a song when you see me
one I know all the words too
I don’t know how long you’ll be waiting
But I hear time passes pretty quickly 
I pray you never stop singing 

I hope you’ll know me when you see me
I know I’ll recognize you 

By then we will be angels 
by then everything will be differnt 
yet so much will stay the same 
I will never stop saying your name

“OK now, rock your hips, shift your heels,
unburden your belly, release your jaw.”
To what end? I want to ask her but it’s a video
so I can’t, even if I would. And just as she says,
“It’s okay if you yawn, or if you twitch, or if you start,”
she says, “to cry,” I release a waiting wail so deep 
I can only feel it, and so low I think only the dead
can hear, and I wonder if it reached my ancestors, 
and I wonder if they feel more free.

“That Old Devil makes his offers, man,
or that’s what I been told; 
‘he puts black diamonds in your hand,
don’t say when they’ll run old.’  

T’was dark down in the mines, ice-cold,
and picks went to and fro.
You dig too far south to hell you’ll go
just mining, mining coal.  

And we stripped each holler two-fold
till all was left was sand
till the Apps they all bled bleeding holes
and the folks here all were damned.  

Well I’m a simple sorta man,
but Data’s the new coal.  
They’ll bring those centers to Kentuck-lands
and in turn just take our soul.”

i come from Irish wakes, a terribly misunderstood tradition
psychologically ~ a wise gift from my Irish ancestors
just lost someone ~ grief exhausted to the core
the house fills up with people, tea made, and whiskey starts flowing  

by midnight a few relatives & close friends yarn stories of the deceased
whole room bursts into contagious laughter ~ spilling into saturating tears
then crying and laughing again

and just before the wee hours an argument breaks out over something no one remembers
a grudge ~ begins to stiffly form ~ not sure if its’ the drink or just emotions running high

the wake is not Irish irreverence ~ it is community
holding one of its members through the worst night of their life
it fills the dark with warmth ~ and refuses to allow grief to exist in silent isolation

some believe a wake evolved from a pagan ritual practice of ‘waking the dead’  

traditional belief has it the wake evolved from an Irish “faire”
meaning to watch over & never leave the body alone
from the moment of death to burial — someone is always present

Family and neighbors come without being asked
they keep coming ~ family doesn’t have to cook
doesn’t have to make decisions or have to be alone with their loss

community arrives takes over and stays
stories told at our family wakes sewed us even closer together
these stories were told retold & even told today

laughter dispels grief ~ story brings relief
of all the complicated human flaws and forms
a Wake is not the flattened saint ~ formal mourning can induce
a hearty lot to help make death survivable invented the Irish wake

I shall never forget my dear Uncle Tim’s Wake
dressed in his buttoned down sweater jacket ~ a tucked in flannel plaid shirt
appeared to be sleeping ~ too young to be dead
his opened wooden casket placed in the dimly lit living room of the home he built by himself
I approached the casket ~ stood quietly looking upon the body
felt him out of the casket, standing next to me ~ his arms around my shoulders