MY MOTHER'S GUITAR

 

My mother's guitar, silent now these

past few years, rests in a corner of the room,

behind that old worn chair, each weary,

each leaning in their separate directions.

I remember clearly the first songs

it offered up: Froggy Went A-Courtin,

Blowin' in the Wind, The Wayfaring Stranger,

remember, too, the warm earthen smell

inside its Bible-black case, the ghost image

of its six strings in that gold plush lining,

long, thin roads disappearing into themselves;

I can see the wooden cathedral hidden

within the sound hole, small sparks

of angled light drifting in and out of view.

The hands that made those chords ring have

flown like birds, far away, hands gone

arthritic, fingers alternately tingling and numb.

But I can still feel the fine ridges wrapped

around each string, how the smallest touch

sounded like a secret being whispered,

a kind of conjuring with no need for words.

It rests here now, between journeys, exhaling

nearly audibly, holds its songs closely,

forever patient in its memories, its history,

its knowing, not forgetting the breath

and blood that rose to meet it,

not letting go of any of it. Not just yet.

HEART

 

I always thought I was simply too shy

for all those dances in the cavernous school

gymnasium, shadowing the tiled wall

while trying to appear casual, prickly sweat

mingled with drugstore perfume,

and the lights never quite dim enough,

young voices rising above the pulse of music,

searching out each other, everyone

seemingly too close and too far at once.

But perhaps it was you all along,

faulty timekeeper, clumsy blood hammer

building your secret rooms, nail by crooked nail.

You never listened well, that much

is for certain, never kept a steady beat,

just made it up as you went along,

always slightly ahead or behind,

daydreaming yourself nearly out of a job.

Heart, those bright-eyed teenage girls

have long since waltzed calmly into middle age,

and I am no jazz poet. Let's sing one

of the old songs tonight, something sweet

and simple, one that begins with barely

a whisper. You know the one.

Stay with me for just a while longer.

ECHOCARDIOGRAM

 

There was a time, not so long ago,

when a young woman's hand sweeping

gently, purposefully across your bare chest

would spark a rush of movement

within the blood, stir the recognition

of one flesh meeting another, somehow

both new and ancient at once.

But today you have crossed a threshold

of sorts, where this young woman,

who balances perfectly kindness and business,

measures every bruised and weary chamber

of your heart. "Breathe in," she intones,

"Now stop. Hold that breath...Good."

From the corner of your eye, you can see

the black and white of the ultrasound,

like a closeup of the moon, or years ago

seeing your daughter for the first time,

hiccupping within her mother's frame.

You think, too, of the Buddha, said to pass

into prajnanibbana this way, reclined

on his left side, eyes half-closed, neither

looking nor looking away. But this,

this, you think, is merely a form of limbo,

the moment midway through the play

when the stage lights dim to a dusty blue

and the whole of the set is quickly rearranged.

You sit upright, button your shirt, surprised

by the sudden return of clinical light.

You thank her for her trouble, take the old soldier

in your chest -- by turns too fast, too slow,

too big for its own good -- meandering

down the hall, and out into the wintery day,

blustery and colorless, quietly resigned

to whatever might happen next.

LEARNING TO LISTEN

 

If I am being honest, brother, my last words to you were untrue, releasing you from this life, this body, this bundle of worry in the way I thought I was required to do. As if words mattered, mine or anyone else's in that moment. As if you needed my permission for release. I told you that I would be alright. Another lie. I told you that I love you, words we never spoke to each other in this life. Some things, we learned early on, need not be spoken. Some things are weakened in their telling. If I am being honest, I saw no need to pray for intervention, as the others did. You were on your way. I felt that elusive door open and close, my hand resting upon your chest, felt the air in the room shift. What could anyone say then? The silence settled in. I could only listen, in ways I am learning still.

I HAD NEARLY FORGOTTEN

 

I had nearly forgotten the poem

you had sent to me, one

that I had tucked away

to read in a quieter moment,

a moment much like this --

the low winter sun sifting through

the delicate maps of frost

upon the window glass,

blue folding imperceptibly into

gold and back again,

and each word offering itself

like the smallest of birds,

the kind my young daughter paints

with two quick brushstrokes,

each small movement threaded

to another, lifting the whole

of the sky with ease.