THE LAST SUPPER

 

When Aunt Anita got word from the clinic

that the cancer was fanning outward

like a web of newly shattered glass,

and that it was, in fact, inoperable, she promptly

planned a get together for family and friends,

an informal wake that she would attend,

and which she dubbed -- not without a touch

of gallows humor -- her last supper.

She arrived in a ball gown, sequined and sparkling,

her long dark hair newly styled, flitting

from table to table, bar stool to bar stool,

glasses raised and clinking, remembering both

the good times and the hard times with

those she knew -- and she knew nearly everyone.

She was their confidante, keeper of their

stories, their sorrows, and secrets.

The next morning she slipped quietly into

a coma, one long dream receding into

another, never again to wake.

Born into nothing, into a town so insignificant

that no one had bothered to name it,

she left this world, nonetheless, dressed to the nines,

a benevolent ruler with a Louisville slugger

tucked behind the bar, just in case.

She left, quite simply, glowing.

MY FATHER FLYING ABOVE REYKJAVIK

 

It's sometimes hard to imagine my father's face,

even when looking at an old photograph.

In my mind's eye, he is always turning away,

as he is in this moment, maneuvering through the clear

arctic air 10,000 feet above the city of Reykjavik,

as far removed from the fields of Aitkin, Minnesota

as his imagination would have carried him.

I can see the smooth, unlined flesh of his neck

peeking between his military cut and Air Force collar,

can see the blue-green lights of the control panel

blinking like stars, now closer, nor farther.

This would be long before he met my mother,

before he left us, and those families which came before.

This is, you might say, a test run for leaving.

He is an apt pupil, willing to put in the long hours.

Does he spare a thought then for his older brother,

my uncle Leo, drowned, so very handsome at

the foot of Mount Fuji, his uniform weighing him down,

a birthday card written out to his sister floating

on the silent surface like a forgotten map?

Or does he think only of this -- the acceleration

and ascension, the world falling away below,

everything making more sense from this distance?

The sky trails behind him like a new signature.

He may never come down again.

DOG DAYS

 

Those long summer evenings of childhood,

when the air stilled, thick and sticky with heat,

and it became impossible to sleep,

my brother and I would bring our pillows

and bedclothes into the living room,

camping out on the floor like intrepid explorers,

stripped down to our white briefs,

our thin cotton sheets billowing like sails

toward the uncharted waters of sleep.

We could hear the chirr of crickets,

and the thump of moths against the screen,

dreading the high and tiny sirens

of thirsty mosquitoes circling the dark.

We would take turns getting up to readjust

the old box fan, which rattled and shook, never

quite staying put but pulling itself forward

bit by bit, or turning slowly to the opposite wall,

as if it knew a better way out of this misery,

this engine to our imaginary boats,

so clumsy and so stubborn, though it was

all we had, its rusted heart and grimy blades

slowing and sputtering to a stop, then

starting back up again, shaking off its own sleep

for our sake, and always -- we hoped --

strong enough to bring us home by morning.