In awe of the ordinary
Gone, the stone you
found upon our walk
along the shore, an inch
of amber quartz, cold
citrine you pressed
into my palm, your hand
closing round my fingers,
flesh on flesh, warmth
on warmth. I have lost
so much. It eludes me,
the heat of things
once felt. I reach into
an empty pocket for
this totem, this bit of you,
an irretrievable memory
encased in honied crystal.
We say our goodbyes
without word of the thing
that lies right there
between us and as we
shuffle our feet, I fix
my gaze on melancholy
clouds, shape-shifting
reminders that the dead
cannot speak and we,
we are unable to give
them voice.
The woman in the meeting
raises her voice
like a charismatic preacher
giving a sermon
through our screens
about the horrors
of life, the havoc she’d wreaked,
the damage she’d done
by drinking and drugging
and we all nod
as if we understand
and because we do
we say our muted amens
and tell it sister
because we all know
that there are things
worth shouting about
when you’ve tried
to burn it all down
and lived to tell the story.
You know the days
the sun explodes
out of darkness
as it bursts
above the horizon
sending blinding
waves of light
over winter
frozen earth?
The cat and I return
to the clinic and wait
for the next room,
for the next tech,
for the next vet
to tell us what
we already know.
It won’t be good.
Perhaps the cat
will surprise us.
He often does.
I don’t know why
I love this cat
whose care has cost us
more than our cars,
more than a year
of college tuition
plus room & board.
He loves my wife
and the card we use
to pay his bills.
He tolerates me.
I’m here.
YOU are there.
Somewhere.
I’m reaching out.
YOU know me
And I want to know
YOU…better?
I want to know
YOU. Can we
begin with names?
YOU called me
by my name
but I…I don’t
know what to say.
What do I call
YOU? To what will
YOU respond?
I want to pull
YOU close and
sit and be with
YOU. I need
YOU. Just
YOU.
YOU.
We are not snow people.
This is not a winter place.
The dog is confused
by the crusty icing of snow
all around. There’s no grass
in sight for him to go
and he doesn’t know
where to make a deposit,
so we crunch and slide
our way over pristine paths
looking for just the right place
to go when there is no
right place to go. We are
enthralled with the marzipan
beauty rolling out before us,
our world at last unspoiled,
and recoil from the need
to leave another stain.
It’s difficult
to put into words
how beautiful is
the pain that
issues forth
as midnight
ink fills
the emptiness.
I would pay
any price to see
what bleeds
onto the page.
In fact, I do.
Balmy January
days turn
on a dime
and we are
abandoned.
Briefly spring,
now morning frost,
a skim of ice
across the creek
while below,
frigid waters
surge.
It’s a journey
or so they said.
My bags,
unpacked,
sit alone
in the corner
of the closet.
Daily excursions
bring me
nightly home.
This is life
without map
and compass.
Short trips
with ones
I love.