Could Spirit Alone
blood, the good Christian
angry at his lack of power, skin broken
under the onslaught of memories, terror and omniscience
transferred to different targets:
me. wings pump
when I talk but won’t take me away.
he doesn’t understand me, fingers
moving game pieces intuitively but not
following any rules. I can breathe fine
when my glass is full, like now
but otherwise
I am too afraid to understand
too confused to leave.
It’s Best to Forget
We must not speak ill of the dead. Even if
she was a fucking junkie slut who
beat the shit out of her children
abandoned them for weeks at a time to
entertain some big talking high-roller from Vegas
some borderline pimp who wanted to show her the good life
or just another junkie who was in the mood to share
we must only speak of her accomplishments,
the good things she did
the charities she worked for
the people whose lives she touched, people that would have been worse off
without her good example and personal strength
because we must not speak ill of the dead, even if
he was a fucking drunk who beat his wife
put her in the hospital so many times
he should have been picked up by the police
who eventually smashed his car
into the back of a minivan full of kids
put their mother halfway through
the front window of the van
we must only speak of the good things he did, the way
he could always be counted on to pick one up from the airport
even at the last minute
the delicate woodwork he designed for the church
the way he reinvented
the blues harmonica
we must not speak ill of the dead, even though
we know in our hearts they won’t come back and haunt us
if we tell the truth, even if we tell
all of it.
My Neighbor’s Dog
I knew something was wrong because his dog
was out, running from one apartment door
to another as though trying to figure out
how to knock or ring for help, despite not having
proper knuckles or fingers. Finally, the dog just stopped on the landing
and barked, over and over again
until I had to go out and see what was wrong
because nobody else seemed to care. I didn’t either, not really
but I liked the dog and I liked the kid.
The dog whimpered and licked my hand as I
turned the knob of the unlocked apartment and
pushed my way in, past the stacks of old newspapers,
magazines, dirty clothes, cigarette trays overflowing
with ash and wads of dusty pink bubblegum
to the room where the boy was hanging from a rope
tight around his blue-and-white neck
shit, he couldn’t have been more than 20 years old.
The dog followed me into the bedroom, tail wagging
licking my hand as though he thought I could do something
like he thought I could fix the broken boy
swinging in front of me. I cut him down
let him fall to the floor, called the police. Later
the police told me I shouldn’t have touched the body
at all, hadn’t I ever seen
a cop show before? I don’t know why I did it
but the dog seemed happy when I did
ran over to the body and lay down beside it
until the cops came.
That night, I let the dog sleep in my bed
I slept on the couch.
I wasn’t sure how to sleep with it, exactly
whether it was a foot-of-the-bed sort of dog
or an under-the-covers type. I’ve known both.
On that first night, though, it slept smack in the middle of my bed
head on my pillow
blankets bunched around its long legs, bony feet.
I figure, with time, we will learn to live together.
The Letter
I find the letter from my ex-husband to our son
my son
telling him a cousin he’s never met, never spoken to
has tried to kill herself
is in the hospital
may be bipolar, they’re not sure yet.
“You should send her a note,” he writes, “let her know you care.
She’d love to hear from you.”
All day, my son sits close to me, doesn’t
talk about the letter
doesn’t know I’ve read it. Instead
he rambles on about all the books he’s been reading
how much he hates winter
the crazy things family members do
the ones he knows. I smile and nod at all the right times
resist the urge to reach out and grab my 17-year-old
hold him tight in my arms, like I did when he was little
tell him how much I love him
how unfair life can be
how I depend on him to toughen up
be strong enough to grow up past
all the crap, the heartache, the disappointments
waiting for him out in the world
and how I will never let him go, never, never.
Tweet
The bird spreads its wings, sends tiny white feathers
flying about the cage like a sudden snowstorm. Each feather
is perfectly shaped, almost too perfect to waste
during a casual cage cleaning.
The little bird clucks at me through the bars
sings as I toss out the old newspapers
its gift of tiny perfect feathers.
The millet seeds rolled up in the newspaper
will sprout in the composter, grow into
tiny green plants stretching out for the sun.
I wish the tiny feathers would sprout as well
become yellow canary chicks
grow
to fill my yard with song.
