Dead Young

I am struggling right now with the death of my nephew. He was my first nephew; born when I was 10 years old. I was the youngest in my family, so when he was born it was my first chance to have a baby to love.  Derek grew up some; he was 31.

I feel the distance between my family and myself more sharply than usual. I am so glad they are together right now, but I miss them. I miss Derek. Selfishly, and without reason - I miss him.

I don't have any art about this yet. There are no words.  Derek was a bright spark... He was complicated- and beautiful.

Derek and I when we were younger...

Two years ago our neighbor died. My husband has a knack for befriending. He and Bill became close over the last year or two Bill was alive. Bill, like all of us, was lovable but not easy to love.

My Neighbor

1.

He liked to flirt with me…

I’d rather give this cabinet to you than sell

Bill, with Joe and Georgia before our trip

it to a bunch of Mexicans. he’d say, My neighbor, he’s  a faggot,

but a helluva nice guy. Good

neighbor.

Bill had both hands gripped tight

to the wheel of the ‘89 Corvette

that he waxed two weeks

before. Thin, caved in chest –

out there in shorts, arms

moving in circles – making

her shine.

2.

Sitting in his camp chair-

watching birds eat crumbs, sores

seeping – eyes and nose running. Slowly

smoking that Winston – bitter ash. Ruminating,

family won’t return his calls. Brother

won’t start his Corvette. He worries

about the battery.

3.

His mom, Georgia, keeps him with her. She buys

him his favorite foods

He scared her when he was young.

Smoked pot and drank. Sold drugs –

one time she found a big black garbage bag

full of weed and –good Texas mama that she is-

threw it out. When he got home he came at her

like he was going to hit her

before running out the door. He didn’t

come back - except for his first wedding-

until Diabetes lost him his job

at the casino.

4.

When Georgia shows me the picture

of the wedding she wonders why he kept

the framed photo of him looking 70’s

handsome with Georgia’s second husband

who he hated standing a little too close

behind him like he was holding a knife to his back.

Now he is kept…. by her. Out of love – but he

is 46- and living at home.

5.

How should we mourn

this man. He walked

without a cane on brittle

legs falling over and again

he couldn’t allow the help he needed,

until gracefully and

without warning he would accept Joe’s arm

as he walked up the steep driveway.

Joe and I sitting next to him in his garage

watching the slow drift

as he falls asleep sitting up with the cigarette

and coffee still in his hand. At the last possible moment

Joe reaches out and touches his chest to keep him

from falling over. you’re so good to me Bill said smiling-

tender.

6.

Joe visits him nearly every day,

on good days they talk cars, bikes, music. Joe

knows that Bill needs to be what he always

has been,

A man- a cussing spitting fast-car driving

hard-drinking man with time

to get soft and misty eyed

later.

One morning, Bill is crying

and listening to the songs on the Sunday morning

radio.

Amazing Grace and a country

number about walking through a graveyard.

His crackling high

voice joining in, whispering then dropping away to nothing

while tears ran down his face

like he was a mourner

at his own Memorial. The one he forbids

us to have.

Now Joe and I sit vigil, in our garage

two doors down from Georgia’s. In folding

camp chairs, smoking cigarettes and trying

to dislodge our resentments, the ones

we haven’t managed to work into pearls yet.

Not wanting to end like Bill but also

wanting to snatch back for him what he couldn't get.

Two months later, Bill’s brother Bud rings

our doorbell. He has a gift bag in his hands. He says

It is from Bill. He bought it for you guys back when he

was watching your cats. Wow, I said

stupidly, It’s not every day you get presents from the dead.

Relationship with a Capital R

The ironic thing about the Relationship (with a capital R) is that it is the place where you are most likely to run up against your own limitations. No fair! Our culture sells romantic love as a kind of panacea for the aloneness that is inherent to the human condition. Maybe it is partially that, but its essential nature less straightforward.

It is in relationship that we see the exact ways that we are alone. This first poem is about the disillusionment that happens when you realize love - as you have known it so far - might not be enough.

Your Heart

When you give your

heart

You pretend it beats

vibrant and full of blood- You say

take this, it will be a worthy companion

to you. Then little by little the hollowness

and the cracks are exposed

The way the thing skips a beat.

You patch it up Move along, nothing

to see here.

Then one day

                                   

broken crumpled moth wings

tarpaper

daub - stick, mud tape

The crowds gather stand around and gawk at the thing

wondering if it will ever fulfill its former promise.

Sometimes you wish for something less - no matter how flawed it might be. You want to know that you are separate, even from those you love. 

In My Daylight

In the thick dark

of the front seat

of his dented Volvo

parked on a dry

nighttime riverbed

wrapped in Leonard Cohen’s voice

beside a man

I’ll never know

well. Talking

the kids

from the Elwha tribe

used to pull pranks

on that bridge. They would

make dummies that looked

real and  throw them

into the middle

of the narrow bridge

under front wheels, screeching

to a halt and almost

through that guardrail

one time.

I will never read

him in the dark. It will

be over after

our first fight. In the dark

of the places he grew

up, I am not required,

to fill any holes.

I have a relationship with the moon...

Childhood

Lying in the back seat of the car. Watching the moon stand still while the rest of the scenery rushed by.

Other Night Lights

My dad (who always carried me in
 from the car even if I was fake-sleeping)
 and me on a road trip to Cali.

Driving highways late

at night sitting low in the back

seat. The slow arc of a spot-

light in the sky. Searching

for something really important – 
alien life or missing children. I didn't realize for

years that it might be prosaic. A huge

sale at a used car lot or the opening

of a new supermarket. Really, it was about

the beam slicing like a light saber

in slo mo. Me low in the back

seat, imagining infinity.

Adolescence

It is a hippie infestation...

When I was a teenager my friends and I held Full Moon Festivals. As a result the moon became our communion, our gathering point. We were a family; we frolicked, we watched the moon rise and set. Often we would still be there at dawn. I lived at the edge of the Puget Sound. The connection between the moon and the tides is science at its most magical.  Our low-lying driveway would flood with the highest of the tides. I cannot tell you how many hours I spent - happy, angry, thoughtful - at the beach.

Current

I am going to the water

don’t follow me.

Lifting the hatch and riding

the current, you might see the other

side of madness – fishes and loaves

and crystalline shards of goblets ground

between our teeth melting

to slink between my toes. Where

they came from.

I am going to the water don’t

follow me.

In the foam my toes feel the earth

move beneath me standing at

the center of stillness. All of the turns

I have ever taken are putty

in foreign hands. Tiny sillicates drift

glistening from side to side, looking

for home. But not homing. What you

think I might be I have never been.

Through every ripple I will

hold you. I am going

to the water

do not follow me.

Adulthood

My relationship with the moon has become complicated, as is true for most things in adult life. Now that I live in a city I sometimes go months without noticing the moon. When we lived in New Mexico the moon was very present. The moon is both the upsurge of passion and the constancy of the tides. In this month of the blue moon - I want to call forth the passion.

Incantation

Stand with me in this tilting lot

wet black cement of the just rained.

The sky is orange to the east and

deep purple to the west. Look up

at the trees and wires filled

with mewling Grackles. Barbed

wire against the darkening sky. The air

chill and damp; I wrap

myself.

The way the dark birds move together

squid ink sprayed across

the water. And the sound – Alien

earthy whispered screams.

We won’t go inside for ice cream. We

shouldn’t be placated by creamy sweetness. Stand here

with me. Rub the rosemary between your fingers. Look

back over your shoulder. It is just enough to be dangerous.