Selected Poems
Dehiscence
Questions fell
down from the trees
the summer my sister lay in bed
each one a delicate boomerang
a pair of pale green wings
Lucent sap thick on our thumbs
as children we split them wide
pressed thin blades to noses and chins
flaunting sudden protuberances
A pod had taken root in her belly
and unfurling its haughty head
hissed capricious commands
to her indentured being
I was a seed with pale wings
spinning on wanton wind
falling to gravel or pavement
questing for moisture below
On the ground, the wing serves little purpose
Smouldering
in an August of no answers
my family daily swept the walk
hoarding dried piles of query
barter for respite or rain
On the ground the wing serves little purpose
You will find it in the stillness
You will christen him with saline
wash the noise and tape away
acetone ghosting from the room
you will wrap his tiny form
in the sheet they call morgue pack
only pale white morning moons remain
when ventilator’s incessant
waves of breathing come to rest
when persistent pulsing
monitor is done
when the shining beads of moisture
inside his breathing tube are gone
pale white morning moons remain
It is then that you will feel
the ancient mantleon your chest
drop like sodden wool
yet light as infant’s breath
it is then that you will bow
you head and mumble ragged prayer
silent awkward praise
To be dissolved into something complete and great
− Willa Cather
As that stunning release
when your newborn pushes
head first into her life, yells
at the sharp snap of lung-sails
unfurling, the cord still pulses
and she is unfolding
already too large to return
to that cushioned grotto.
You are both covered in salt,
she, the amniotic brine
you, the tears of your labor.
She is offered to you
a coffer of living myrrh
and as she mews and searches
the truffle of your breast,
you pull her close and whisper
to this future you will suckle –
you are most welcome.
Storm Hymn
for Lou
One thin crack in the plastic sign
on the locked ward door
winds its way through
Authorized Personnel Only
like a branch of the Hackensack River
where we used to play.
Dried mud thick on our shoes
split in so many places,
our mother’s face when she said,
We just admitted your brother
He told us his crystals are melting.
Waiting for the orderly to turn his key
I turn back to our winter childhood refuge
under the cellar stairs.
We were base camp
guardians of snow.
Charted drift and temperature,
graphed hope for Sunday night storms.
Now grey clouds
and thorazine doses increase
he wanders the blizzard alone,
no guide rope tied to the door
unique as each stellar dendrite
no two of him alike.
We were base camp, guardians of snow