The house she built
is nested inside
the one they bought together.
It’s been long in its building,
with slow accretions
wrung from unshed tears.
A desperation. A resignation.
It has gift boxes, unwanted.
Empty bowls and jars
on brazen display,
meant to catch a beautiful rain
that never came.
In an evening of pine perfume
and soft needle carpets,
we sat in the scout group, fire-entranced.
And laughed,
as neglected marshmallows blackened
and fell into flame.
Outhouse-bound,
I didn’t hear your soft steps behind me.
You ran ahead. Leaned against a tree,
not beckoning, but doing something odd with your fingers.
I stopped by you. How could I not?
With one of the warm mallows,
you made stretchy designs,
like knitting with thumbs and index fingers.
Now an amoeba, now a neuron, a spider web, a ghost with eyeholes.
You said nothing at all,
and turned your freckle face away, enthralling.
And I was silent too,
smiling and trying to catch your eye.
Just as the light failed,
you removed a ring from your finger, pocketing it.
Looked away, tapped your foot.
What a fool I was.
For his end time,
we flocked together from our compass points,
and gathered by his bedside.
Like the fresh faces on Auntie Em’s farm
after Dorothy’s dream.
In his life, he must have dreamt us
into something that held him happy
until this day.
His plugs and wires and tubes
seemed connected to an underground cloud,
and what it fed to him was bitter.
Today was his day for the punching of tickets,
like Tom Hanks on the Polar Express.
But, inspirational? Not so much.
Each one showed our other face
just as we were looking at his,
and we wanted to plug our ears
as he spewed secrets
that we dismissed as drug-induced,
but knew to be true.
And what do you do with the Never Dids,
the filthy kids and the hiding hids?
The thrown cans of salmon
and the smashing plates.
Oh God, we were sorry,
and a group hug just wasn’t in the cards.
Third or fourth wind,
I think.
Pissed at the life sedimentary.
A change is as good as a rest.
Round and round the mulberry bush.
Hah. And I see that my old cat
knows he’s bony now.
He challenges the thin air,
and slingshots himself
into the five yard dash.
Then, saunters to his hairy bed.
All humdrum and glum.
I’m thinking we are partners
in the big sad,
and he knows he can’t take care of me
no more.
My druthers would find me
in an unhurried floating
a neuronic plasm-
might it take a year?
no matter
it’s the thought that counts
‘crost an undefended border
dissolved in the melding of foreign airs
and with me-
injectable pharmaceuticals
with sad needles
saved for a job to be done
no drone
no watchful eye
no barbed wire
or canine snout
would detect this temporary ghost
that hovered over a house of white
Oh, what I wouldn’t do
what I wouldn’t do.
Often, in our sessions,
we trade stories, jokes.
You smile and say
it was the fastest hour you’ve had
in a while.
One day, I was awkwardly silent.
At the hour’s end,
I said sorry for not talking today.
And you said “don’t apologize”.
Then, as you left the room,
“Ever”.
Today your phone rang, mid-session.
I said answer it, but you refused,
saying you don’t do that while working.
You put on a brave face,
but I knew you were upset so I insisted.
You left the room and returned within two minutes,
your face red and eyes averted.
I said you need to go home. We are done here today.
You nodded in silence, and went to leave,
but turned around in tears,
telling me some very personal things about your life.
I was embarrassed for you, and, in my awkwardness,
I told you I would never say a thing to anyone.
When you left the room, I got ready to leave.
But you were gone.
This, after seven years of acquaintance.
Our next meeting may be a little uncomfortable.
But, then again, I think not.
Lest I should do it wrongly,
help me.
Get a seed,
clean and viable.
In its fleshy pith,
the veins of memory.
Show me what should be
the depth,
the best earth,
the time of day,
whether sun or shade.
Give a benediction
so that, in years that I will not know,
the tree will be understood.
Tired from rolling tires
uphill, but still…
Stunned by heart thump,
I’m sat flat, in the open garage,
on a summer chair,
watching chimney breaths
bellow and subside.
I’m thinking of all the real houses
fanned out in a matrix
on the slopes above me.
Their snowy rooves
with small ponds of molten black,
made by fickle bubbles of attic heat.
The houses, the rooves of snow,
and what floats above them.
And ah! What daydream!
One house is a piano house.
Children come and go there,
in clandestine cars,
to partake of the tuneful drug.
Their mother-teacher has piano teeth,
taut ham strings, and clockface glasses.
We met by accident.
She hit my car.
I keyed her piano.
We get along.
Never show your face again.
At least
not the one faux filtered,
caked with hiding,
faked and chiding,
undeciding.
Resting bitch I want.
A tooth or two
showing what might bite.
A premature goodnight.
A masochist’s delight.
Wish I may,
wish I might
coax from you a smile of bright.
Just beyond piled-up banks
of dirty snow,
stick trees, made of disease,
voice their last testaments,
mournful and forlorn.
And so we walk,
pushing shins and shoes forward,
keeping music’s company.
And we carry that weight.
We’re going to carry that weight
a long time.
Aremyfeetofftheground 