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Posts Tagged ‘memory’

Ten Things I Won’t Think about Right Before I Die

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on February 24, 2013| 3 Comments »

It happened once. I was drowning,
held under by a keeper hole
in a rapid on the Salmon.
The light streamed through
the river’s surface and I watched
as it bent and streamed
through the roil and churn.
I thought, so this
is what it is like
to be in a washing machine.
And then I thought,
so this is what it is like
to die. And I was not at all scared,
not until the hydraulics spit me out
and I was pummeled and lashed
and battered by waves.
So how could I now say
that I will not think of pomegranates
or how scorpions mate?
How can I say I will not recall
who did the dishes tonight or
the name of the boy who
in sixth grade pinned me to the floor
so his friend could kiss me and how I cried?
I’m loathe to think about what
I might not think about for fear
of creating that frame—the one the brain
retains. Like the time when Janine
told my son not to drop her earring
into the cauliflower soup. In an instant,
he dropped it right into his bowl,
his neural circuitry wired by her words.
Tonight it is enough to know
that the dishes are done. That scorpions do
whatever scorpions do to procreate,
regardless of my ignorance.
And the orange beside me is ripe, so ripe
it weaves itself into the poem in the place
where the pomegranate would be.
The washing machine is quiet now.
And if I were to die right now, my last thought
would be of not wanting to think
about how much I have hurt you.

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Dear Rosemerry Haiku

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on November 29, 2012| 7 Comments »

reading again
that yellowing letter
you never sent me

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Dear Julie,

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on November 12, 2012| 3 Comments »

All day the snow has been melting.
This morning, my son said, “It’s like
a big battle between two forces,
the cold and the warm. Which one
do you think will win, Mom?”
You and I both know no one wins.

I’ve been thinking so much
about your ear—the unexpected
rupturing. This is when it is hard
to be so far away. I would like
to be near you to say soothing things
in your other ear. Not promises, of course.
But poems.

The other day I was driving home
through the eastern part of the state.
There is nearly nothing there but road
for miles and miles and miles. Nothing,
and a wire fence to hold back
all that nothing. It was a wonderful
place to think of nothing, but
my mind kept returning instead
to the day when we walked
along the Platte and said
hello to everyone we passed.
So few of them said
hello back.

Why do we remember
what we do? How could we
have known that day would be the one
that would become a jewel in our minds.
Why that day ,wading at the confluence
and posing like statues against a wall,
when there have been so many
other days brilliant days together?

Today, it was brilliant, surely,
but I’d be surprised if I remembered it
years from now. Luster in the trees
and the scent of pumpkin pie in the air.
I swear all of main street smelled of spice.
What I would like to remember, though,
is that this is the day that your hearing
began to come back, only that’s not
what you said in your message.

Remember how we laughed
when the people we greeted
pretended that they could not hear us?
But I hear you, Julie, I hear you
most days, even from far away.
It’s not a phrase or word that I hear,
just the ring of your being. Rilke says that what
batters you becomes your strength.
I might whisper that line in your one
good ear. Or I might just whisper
your name the way the sun says
“World, I am here to warm you,”
the way the cold says, “Snow,
I am here to keep you whole.”

Yours,

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Taking a Sip

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 25, 2012| 4 Comments »

I wrap my hand
around the glass.
I am two again,
walking in Seattle
with my mother.
Do I really remember
walking up and down
all those stairs, or is it
just the aphoto
and her retelling of it
that I remember?
Why do I think of it now?
I raise the glass.
from the table.
Outside, the trees
are nearly bare.
Autumn is visiting.
I wonder why
the leaves on the tips
are last to go.
Or do they do that only here?
It rises a little more.
Why do we
speak to each other
like this,
in voices I don’t recognize.
Who is she, this woman,
lifting the glass?
The water
meets her lips
just as I think
how thirsty
I am.

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Snippet

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on May 15, 2012| 3 Comments »


Sing a new song. —Psalm 144:9

That song I sang
so long, so long,
so brimming with
sincerity,
I hardly can
recall the tune …
though it was something
like duh dum,
duh dum, duh duh dum …
or was it duh dah dum
duh dah dum …
I almost forget
I knew the song
at all, except
today a strand
of tune wound round
my thoughts just like
a scarlet ribbon
tied around
the pinkie finger
reminding me
I should remember
something, something
once so vital,
so important
now a blurry
memory.
And then the errant
strand of tune
was gone. Gone?
How could it end?
I sang it everywhere
I went. I lost
myself in its glissando,
fermata, sforzando
and painississimo.
I sang it ferocious,
I sang it tender.
The song, it was
my everything,
That’s all I can
remember.

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With No Exceptions, Not One Tanka

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on January 20, 2012| 1 Comment »

rereading the book
of my days,
every page
I’ve dog eared
as one worth living

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