SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE NEIGHBORHOOD CAFE

 

The elderly couple sitting near the window, here amongst the midday cacophony of voices climbing over voices, coffee cups clanging like broken bells, enjoys their meal in measured silence. You might not notice them at first, this small island of calm, cloud-gray and unassuming, their subtle movements reflected in the glass behind them. They nod, shrug their shoulders in bemused acknowledgement, passing small packets back and forth, as if they were coded messages. Do not mistake this for nothing. Do not presume they have said all there is to say in this lifetime. They have, it seems, moved beyond the boundaries of words, beyond the Yes and the No, with little need now to ask for what lies plainly here between them.

COUSTEAU

 

We liked the sound of his voice, balanced

somewhere between childlike wonder

and the calm certainty of knowing,

filtering through the small television speaker.

We liked his red cap bobbing against

the shifting blue, his sun-weathered skin,

hands gently cradling one alien lifeform

or another, startled into being, reaching out

in all directions at the expanse of air.

We loved most the strangeness of it all,

every new thing in search of a name,

this kingdom so far removed from the drab

certainty of classrooms and housing projects.

How else could we have known that

the world, like us, was made mostly of water,

how else to imagine our small bodies

descending into darkness unafraid,

suddenly weightless among the current,

how else could we have ever believed

in all the beauty we could not see?

WHY I LIVE IN A COLD CLIMATE

 

Because the sound of ice cracking beneath my feet reminds me of wooden ships creaking as they awaken for a journey. Because that journey can be long and arduous. Because frost collecting in the corners of darkened window glass becomes a kind of map, more reliable than starlight alone. Because I always liked you in a hat, and our bodies draw sudden sparks beneath the drab woolen blankets. Because our breath here can be seen as easily as any cloud passing, our silence sent skyward along with our prayers. Because in winter we walk easily upon water, never questioning the river's current or where we might have left the shore. Because you can follow the tracks of those who have trudged through the snow before you, making a path for others yet to come. Because sound travels far in the cold, and we have learned to listen. Because the Cardinals and house finches remind us to sing, in spite of it all. Because there are as many names and varieties of snow as there are for their Creator. Because whenever you drop a glove here, a stranger will inevitably call out, saving you yet again, and your saying thank you is really an offering of love you cannot quite admit to. But you feel the warmth of that fabric once again encircling your fingers, small but undeniable, feel the pinprick ache of blood's knowing return, and that may be enough for now.

COMPASSIONATE RELEASE

 

My grandfather came home from state prison

hardly noticed, came home simply to die

in peace, or rather, in whatever semblance of

peace a man like him could be granted --

the memory of past sins having their final say,

while cancer gnawed slowly at his bones.

Though not slowly enough and not

painfully enough, my aunt later quipped.

On that first, and last, hospital visit

he resembled most, to my young eyes,

the Egyptian mummy sleeping under glass

at the science museum -- that bleak

skeletal grimace glowing ghostly through

the centuries, one long, withered finger

pointing toward, or reaching out for,

what we could only imagine, ancient gauze

dangling like flesh in the clinical light,

the merely human drawing gasps of fear

and fascination from all of us gathered there.

I feared this husk of a man, and for him,

feared him instinctively, not quite knowing why.

My mother bent low to whisper to him

the forgiveness which her faith demanded,

as one would comfort a suffering child,

before walking us kids solemnly back

outside, the night suddenly quiet, hesitant,

the winter sky hanging flat and low

against the earth, our small breath visible,

hovering in the air between us.