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His wife offered to take me to see him where he lives now at the Veterans Home.
She said, “I’ll be surprised if he recognizes you.”
“Well, I’ll be,” He said. “How long has it been,” when he turned and and saw me.
I burst into tears. I hugged him, burrowed into his shoulder.
He patted my back. I patted his eyes as clear and blue as I remembered.
He looked healthy, his voice the same.
Slightly bent back, stooped yes but still tall, slender, dressed neat and clean.
He was just so real.
I shake my head at this swell of emotion; not regrets, but confusion.
I met him when the military sent him through Vo-tech training on the GI Bill.
He became a wage-earning contributing member of society. training in order to become a wage-
I took training as well to become contributing member of society as well.
He told me stories about his Viet Nam tour of duty
Of how, “the Military dog did all the work,” guarding the camp perimeter.
Stories. Trench foot from feet that never dry.
He showed up for a date on a motorcycle, me dressed in a floor length evening gown.
Do all night janitors hoist their honey, their hussy, their chippy up on the boss’ desk,
when she shows up wearing only a fake fur coat?
Do they leave their DNA on the navy blue dress? Lights out when they leave? Do all
custodians offer marriage after the abortion?
I try to remember why I said no when he asked me to marry.
He was too bossy. Said he was going to rid of any reminders of mee–the quilt I made for him.
He was the one who put my kids’ bikes together one Christmas.
I would send cards on remember his birthday. We were the same age.
He phoned my daughter to ask about me.
Was that jingle, “For better or worse”?
Marriage is a highway with pot holes, bad drivers, road signs, and toll booths demanding money.
His room at the VA was neat orderly, precise you might say.
His wife said, “That’s his Military background,” austere but bare except for grooming items.
“Careful. Watch for ice,” He said as we walked from her car to a restaurant.
He covered whatever dementia he had with comebacks, “Hm-m-m,” or “I don’t know.”
Confused about the limits. Tears now that he is hers. Violate her borders?
Rubbed his shoulders as he sat in a chair. As we toured we held hands.
He paused to remove the wedding ring from his left hand as he held my right.
His wife introduced me to people there as his girlfriend.
Back in the day I objected to calling them boyfriend. They were not boys, they were men.
A man we know whose wife is in early onset senility said “It’s like raising a kid!”
It was time for me to leave. He said thank you. So did I.
While she waited outside in her car
He and I watched the elevator doors slide slowly shut between us.
Did he kiss the top of my head? Did I just imagine it?
Or was he just hungry for warm touch?
We’re over the hill, not down the drain.
*&*&*&

who expected me to know how to raise a daughter? i’m no father. this isn’t me fishing for a compliment; i know i’m undeserving of one. nonetheless, to my credit, i loved this little girl, the way she meshed her hands in the net, pulling out slimy kelp bits and throwing them on the deck where they landed and were not moved and the sun beat down and plastered them to the wood, and all the while in my mind i watched her age and plaster herself to a boy, leaving muddy footprints in each other’s rooms all winter that i would pretend not to see and his parents would yell at him for, saying those aren’t your feet son, and all the while the two of them will fall into the dark they don’t understand, hunting, breathless, chasing the light they hope they’ll find, and all my wisest words of caution will never make sense to her. but ah me, all that could have been in the future, and she was still my baby, my little girl who loved me, who loved life, who loved everything and nothing, who delighted in the mundane in a way i now cannot.

but back to the past, my nightly dream, my bittersweet memory on the boat – i smiled down at her and she was all glow, all golden brown hair and skin and eyes, all beautiful and small and easy to protect. it will never be that way again, and i will never be able to remember that day in all its perfection, as it really was. i was losing her beat by beat, measure by measure, to this sickening game we all play called life, and the orchestra was getting frantic while i tore my hair out piece by piece. the problems were always in my head, only in my head. i held out my arms out and she wanted to snuggle in, wanted me to make everything all right, but i always knew the day would come when she finally understood I could not, and still to this day years later i never have and never will.

is it true that love is sacrifice, or is it just selfishness, because you know you’d rather let someone go than watch them slowly realize how you’ve failed them? i believe this took a turn. let me go, boys, for i’m an excuse for a man. let me live to die, because i have no other way to live without her. i’m already marching to my own funeral drum, and i’ve made the casket.

giving her up –
the papers
signed in bloodred ink

The tallest tree among thousands
In life stood tall and proud
Now fallen as it rattles the forest
The answer to that age old question found
Silent did it fall but loud was the crash
How different the world will be now
O great oak tree, you stood so tall
The tallest tree among among thousands
Clip-clop clip-clop
Go the hooves against the prairies
Indents beat into the path
That would define the coming generations
Clip-clop clip-clop clip-
The plow pulled by an iron heart
Seeds planted by a caring soul
Bells toll for the Clydesdale
They toll also for the oak tree
Hearts beat in unison and hands link together
Retired from the farm and carried from the woods
The flowers bloom and carry memories
Every petal a different story
The oak trees grow taller like
They aim to reach the heavens
Chatter chatter mumble mumble
In the room they can’t stop speaking
Not in sorrow or in vain
Because the joy those flowers bring
And the pride the forest holds
Even with the oak and horse gone
Their stories will always be told

Aliens
Humans
Is your need for purity worth more than our need for survival?

Criminals
People
Who lives in fear of the other?

Dealers
Dreamers
Were you taken at 5?

Thieves
Laborers
Who else is willing to do the work?

Murderers
Parents
How can a child be tortured and lost to time?

Illegals
Immigrants
Is it you or I hiding from the truth?

We despise you
We just need to survive

Pink, glossy lipstick on the rim of
A plastic lid.
The jingle of jewelry
& the confident, steady
clicking of boots.
Sweaters with small
crystalline snowflakes
melting between the threads.

When I think of you, Mom,
I think of watching
Jaws
for the fifteenth time.
Your enthusiasm for
wild things
and tomatoes.
I think of the way you put
Everyone
At ease.

Aim to please.

& yet,
Another gift you have is
Being comfortable
By yourself. Making a home
for yourself
Inside of yourself.
& protecting it.

Today I recognize
That luxury:
To massage my own feet.
To re-pot the plant.
To notice my curiosity
in my own head
or in the trailhead marked
“Jump Off Canyon”
& following it.

You walk balance &
bravery like a Trapeze Swinger
trust falling,
flailing,
& suspended
between one life
and into another.
I think of that unknowing.
That sacrifice.

When I think of you, I think of
Coffee rings on newspaper,
Alanis Morisette on tape cassette,
& a room
At the center
of me.

I live there today.
Because you showed
Me how.

The first full moon comes on my 16th birthday – clandestine
the Fates have a cruel sense of humor like that it’s funny
to them; the would-be-witch unaware of the were
coursing through bones that are ready to be broken
by the violence of a creature lurking under the skin
of a girl who barely knew how to do her eyeliner
there were no snapping jaws or ragged claws and bloodlust
is the hallmark of one broken-in to womanhood – the hair
the hair was the first sign

It sprouted from everywhere it wasn’t supposed to – creeping
like kudzu down legs that can’t run fast enough a coat of maggots
infesting the rotten corpse of the girl that never got to be – a razor
is no substitute for a scalpel but self-efficacy quickly transforms
to self-harm and aesthetic modification isn’t as permanent as an autopsy
what is alive will grow back even if it wishes it was dead
and hair is no exception

There’s nothing exceptional about living in fear of full moons
lunacy descending with the ascension of every lunar cycle
bones bend at all the wrong angles hip bones sharp and jutting
godless reminders gnashing like teeth snarling the message
that this girl is not as she’s intended to be – a temple
to the most unholy of deities: the bastardization
of the divine feminine

There is no goddess to beseech for freedom from this – Artemis
wouldn’t taint an arrow with the blood of one so unsightly
your misery is unworthy of being put out and you’re out
of concealer so what’s the point? Dry the tears and put a muzzle on it
no one wants to hear the girl who cried wolf especially when she’s crying
about her own damn reflection – don’t you know what they do
to girls like you who slip up and let themselves
be seen?

You want to be a woman? Crack your bones back into place
rip the hair from your flesh and blush your cheeks with the blood
performing humanity is a performance all the same and you are far
from the only grotesque creature in these woods – Howl
and they’ll keep you company until the sun returns – no one else
will hear; men never listen to anything less beastly than themselves
and even you could never best the beast of all beasts

You may be made a wolf by night and maybe
the raised hackles mistake you for a man but at least
you’ll never be one of them in the daylight.

The passion you wield
for the things you love;
I want to drink the passion
from your lips like wine,
take a sip and exhale out
my vigor–like flint to steel

lips like silk on my tongue
press my cheeks on your
belly, another sip of passion
trace lines with my sight
eyelashes graze on porcelain
flesh–like cotton or wool

I take great care, as if
marked fragile; in time
I hear your soft sighs
I see your pretty sights
caress, love you loud
never hide in silence

we intertwine our souls
like a chain-linked in red
thread wrapped around
our pinkie fingers, it is
invisible but incredible;
passion.

I think I would settle to be her friend
When she laughs it reminds me that I can love something more each day
When she smiles I feel more alive
I push through though
The feelings and fantasies
I know they aren’t meant for me
Not with her at least
So I’ll be the best friend
I think it’s better that way
I would say no one gets hurt but I know that’s not true
Being the best friend means I could never be the lover
And being the best friend means I don’t see you that way
So I’ll place my self there because at least she’ll still look at me
Even though it’s not in the way I crave
I’ll be the best friend
It’s better this way

Are these not just excuses to not connect. Our differences are irrelevant. To only name the flaws. – Bjork

Perhaps it was wrong
to burn him in my bucket of ashes.
Perhaps raising fire
was only code for my incompetence.

He is a fine musician, he hears notes
better than words. I hear
the keys and chords of an unknown man
and my hunger looks for answers
in blue notes and echoes.

Words dry up. They always have.
But words are kindling too.

*

Sandalwood oil cools on the tabernacle of your wrist.
No sandalwood grew in Oslo.
Yet our little love nest on the fjord was full of sweet scent
and strong hot tea. I loved choosing furniture
for you. I loved dropping mint and sugar in your tea.
I loved singing a third above your melody.

You did not notice. You kept singing your lonely song.

*

How many tables did we construct?
How much experience can be stretched on them
now for examination? And how many conclusions
wow us then are moved like chess pieces?

The usual gambit
grabs your body from my memory
and I anele it with aloe and myrrh
as scripture demands. Ashes to ashes, you know.

So I clinch the white ash and a checkmate
from plane crashes, canals,
and ransomed songs foreshortened by history.
But the wooden hut we cobbled together
outlasts us. It outlasts even inept love.

This picture speaks a thousand words and none of them are kind
As your heart is in the right place but it never cared for mine
And just within the framing is a hymn that can’t be heard
But if you listen to the meaning, you can understand its words

It makes you want to relive all the past years of your life
To remember what remembering what nostalgia then felt like
But gentle foggy patterns start to blanket what you know
And nothing damn worth saving is revived amongst the snow

The simple way of loving pictured clear inside your head
Where couples speak in poetry but nothing will be said
Imaging we’re older and our greatest hurts will heal
Aching only as reminder to remember they were real

When Judging life set on a stage, it makes you feel so small
As if will watching in theatrics serves to make it real at all
But if following a passion Settles something in between
Then possibly its meaning lies unhidden and unseen