Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Sole

 

 

 

Like a boot takes the shape

of the foot that wears it, I imagine

my hand might come to take the shape

of yours, your hand—something

I was made to hold, made to move with,

made to let go.

In Room 1224, St. Mary’s

 

 

 

The Mozart Aria fills the hospital room

and Jack closes his eyes and weeps,

his thin neck and shoulders lean

 

into the familiar notes,

then return to stasis

as the soprano rests.

 

It’s the phrasing, he says, the phrasing,

using a hand to meet the crescendo,

then to illustrate the softening phrase.

He, too, is softening, the punch line

whacked off, and what remains

is his thrill in beauty.

 

Just ten minutes ago,

they strapped a purple band

on his wrist, DNR,

 

the same wrist

where so much tenderness,

so much life is pulsing.

Making Light

 

 

Fumbling in the dark

with the matchbook

grateful my hands

are experienced

with making flame—

 

part of me fears

using them up

part of me knows

it’s what matches

are for.

One Set Up

 

before the lines are written

asking the players to go

on stage and shine

 

One Without Candles

 

power out—

an invitation to fall in love

with darkness

 

 

 

“Sometimes I draw a straight line

and the other artists tell me

to squiggle it—“

 

all night I re-imagine

our storyline with curves

Next Chapter

 

 

 

Mom, she says, Stop crying.

She’s embarrassed for me.

 

I can’t stop. After three hours

of snuggling on the green couch,

 

we are nearing the end of our book,

where the silverback gorilla

 

and the baby elephant say goodbye

to the girl who has helped them

 

leave their cages. It is not

the farewell that makes me weep,

 

though that, too, but the way

that the girl and the gorilla

 

share a passion for art. It’s so good,

I say to my girl between sniffs,

 

it’s so rare and so good to find someone

who really understands you.

 

She looks at me as if she will never

comprehend how such a thing

 

could make someone cry.

My tears land on the end of the chapter,

 

leaving a wet trail I don’t

expect her to follow, not yet,

 

her small hand already

pushing on mine to turn the page.

 

%d bloggers like this: