GHOST STORIES

 

Visiting the Finnish Lutheran Cemetery,

the small clapboard church leaning wearily toward

the empty highway, my cousin reminds me

of what the gravediggers told her, how the residents here

grow restless in the evening, walking and conversing,

as if not yet settled on this idea of being dead.

"But," she reminds me, by way of disclaimer,

"they have been known to partake in the whiskey."

Everyone has a ghost story around here:

restless ghosts walking the creaking staircase all night,

opening the heavy doors and windows, shaking

the rusty box springs of the bed, or the mischievous one

who locked the unsuspecting dog in the car overnight,

and the stubborn one who followed the family when

the farmhouse burned to the blackened ground.

My ghosts, by contrast, are so reserved, hardly stirring

from their bodies of air, speaking only from the measured

silence of the page, leaving even the dust in its place.

I told you, dear friend, to visit as often as you like,

test your presence in this once-familiar world,

read the poems you wrote when still a teenager,

amused, I would imagine, by what seemed

so important to you then. Haunt me as you like, love.

Come close. Hover, the way you sometimes did

when I worked, if only to see if you are in the words

I have not yet begun to write or understand.

ADDICTION

 

You held your secrets close, as gently

as they would allow, as if they, too, were

wounded things, in need of your full and constant

attention, as if keeping them cocooned

in your cool, anemic room kept you both safe.

So much we did not and could not know,

so much you kept even from yourself.

You longed most for respite from this life,

its continual demands, its pettiness and pretense,

the futility you saw in its endless disguises.

You wanted to step outside of it all, time itself

racing past the window glass, frame by crooked frame.

What a shock, then, when it found you unaware.

What a shock when the pills swallowed you.

I still don't understand the simplest things

in this life -- like how to love and be loved without

fear, or how to explain to others that you were

never the measure of your illness alone.

I still don't know if the world, as you might

have said, is so bitter that we must wash it down

with something strong, or so very sweet

and wonderous that we must raise our glasses

again and again. You tell me. You tell me.

THE COUNTY LINE

 

(Tyyne Natus, 1906-1953)

Having waded through the green waves of ditch grass

and wildflowers, bramble grown nearly waist-high,

the prickly stems of young strawberries

and the private cosmology of gnats, we arrive

like casual explorers to examine the broken foundation,

hidden from view off the highway, of what once was

The County Line Bar, place where my grandparents --

only yesterday it seems -- served up drinks

to the always thirsty locals and those passing through,

and no doubt consumed as much as they sold.

Who's to say that these ruins are not sacred,

or their ghosts worthy of remembrance?

Just over there, my grandmother stood for what has

become my favorite photograph of her, framed

on either side by my grandfather and two regulars,

laughing, girlish and seemingly without care,

her small dog held close against her, one cloud of breath,

all but invisible, hovering in the crisp winter air.

This is how I want to remember her, her smile

like a sudden flash of daylight, the gold in her hair

shining, even in black-and-white -- before the loss

of a son on the other side of the world tore

something in her irreparably, before the alcohol bruised

and the weight of her days became too much.

I need to remember this moment, if only for myself,

to remember that she knew joy upon this earth,

the ease and gentleness of common things,

that she loved and was called beloved in return.

DEMONS

 

In my mother's view of the world,

a world long since passed

into memory and family lore, nearly every

affliction of the body, psyche, or soul

could be ascribed to demons.

There was the demon of alcohol, persistent

and familiar as the setting sun, the demon of lust,

the demon that caused epilepsy, and

my stammering lisp as a child.

Demons were, it seemed, everywhere --

in constant need of being cast out, sometimes

forcefully, in the sanctum of the church,

and in our humble living rooms,

the preacher gone red-faced with intent,

his voice commanding, one tiny river

of sweat trickling down his cheek.

My mother said, more than once, that my father

must have been possessed by demons

which had caused him to gamble and drink,

to womanize, and abandon his children,

running like a fugitive from one end

of the country to the other, and back again.

She didn't mean it metaphorically.

She meant, I think, that no man could

possibly be purely evil without

some assistance, that there must be

an unseen hand holding the map,

guiding, relentlessly turning his back to the world,

and sweeping clean his tracks

until the man himself, however upright he

had begun, could no longer be seen.

SECOND MEETING WITH MY FATHER

 

After burying my half-brother that afternoon, I asked the cab driver to drop me at my father's shop on Rice Street, two blocks up from the housing projects, where as a child I had so often imagined him, alternately captaining a ship through far-off lands, or swilling cheap wine under a bridge with the other derelicts. But here I was, surprising him, weighted and imbalanced with grief and a lifetime of questions which I could not bring myself to articulate, even now. He moved, at his ease, through rows of carpet and color samples, walls stacked with gallon drums of paint, back to his wood-paneled office. I noticed the pigmentation of his hands had receded, leaving patches the color of lard shining through, or the underside of a painting that has begun to chip. "Well..." he began, offhandedly, "you and I just kind of went our separate ways" -- as if this were an explanation, as if the child had somehow agreed and denied the father as well. He leaned back in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his head, elbows pointed in either direction, asked what I did for a living. I told him that I was a poet, which he failed to acknowledge one way or another. "I mean," he tried again, "What do you do to put money in your pocket?" I shrugged, stammered out one dead-end job or another. It was hard to imagine this most plain-spoken of men ever sweeping my mother off of her feet, however briefly. But wounded people have a way of finding each other, and are privy to a language of their own. It was, in part, why I was here, a product of that wound. This, then, was the earthly kingdom he had constructed, and had chosen again and again. It was, I suppose, a life that he could understand, one of facts and figures, the tangible and the easily stated. I left him to it.

COMFORTING THE CHILD

 

Being the only son of parents who

abandoned their children as easily as one

walks to the grocery store -- one

preferring the soft oblivion of Stoli and

sleeping pills, the other the peculiar balance of

status and anonymity that only money

affords, -- I stand, perhaps, too closely to

my own girl, always on guard,

hovering, worrying myself into sleeplessness.

I am nothing if not vigilant, an occasional

nuisance of concern, golden retriever of a father

at the gate, barely blinking, awaiting my cue.

When she races up the steps of her school,

confident in a way which I never was,

my pride mingles with a tinge of unspoken grief.

Still, I want nothing more than to be taken

for granted, to never be known as an absence.

I want for her the autonomy of knowing,

for love to be as constant and as easily forgotten

as the silent pulse of blood at wrist

and ankle, and my hand upon her shoulder

when she hurts, drawing circles

on her back, comforting, not only her

but the child no longer there.

SMOKING IN THE MOVIES

 

The legendary smokers up on the big screens

have all but vanished from our lives,

which I suppose is just as well, there being

precious little glamor in its end result.

But there was a time, not so long ago, that

we believed in that nameless hero, strong and silent,

smoking while gazing out upon the plains, far

from everywhere, and the villain, killing simply for

whimsy and fame, always one step ahead.

We believed in the femme fatale blowing smoke

rings that floated off like ill-shapen hearts,

and the hapless men falling over themselves

to offer a light to the blonde bombshell.

We followed the descent of the good girl

gone bad, the private thoughts of the lonely P.I.,

lighting up as he walked on, fading from view.

We winced at the callous boss and his wet stogie,

sighed in the obligatory afterglow of a motel room;

we fell in love with the passing stranger,

even when we knew better, the ingenue gazing

across a smoke-filled room, smoke like a veil

between illusion and the all-too-real.

But we no longer believe. We are, it seems,

wizened, streamlined, our words, like the thoughts

that lent them, reaching upward in wafer-thin

knots, weighing no more than air.

SNAPSHOTS OF MY GRANDPARENTS, CIRCA 1947

 

for Nels and Tyyne Natus

They lean into each other, almost imperceptibly, as two old drunks, long familiar with one another, often will, partly out of love, partly out of habit. They wear neither their Saturday clothes nor their Sunday best, he in plaid farmer's jacket and frayed cap, her hat tilted like a lazy flower to one side of her bronze-tinted hair. Their smiles look slightly weary, as if lacking the energy to rise fully above the surface. But this seems to be a moment on which they could agree -- no arguments here, no shouting in the old language or the new -- years before she chose the arsenic over the simplicity of sunlight, before the cancer carved through him a path which no living thing could ever hope to travel. In this moment, the silence is not pointed but as gentle as the smoke which surrounds them, bringing them somehow closer, their pale eyes narrowed slightly against the light.

GHAZAL LOOKING EAST, THEN WEST

I come from a language that has no future tense,

where love itself is measured simply by standing still.

My mother's ancestors brought bad habits but good songs,

their hungry ghosts lingering around the whiskey still.

You told me once that loyalty was a defect of character.

My heart is a three-legged dog following you still.

Perhaps it's not love if something doesn't get broken.

When everything shatters, even the world becomes still.

My daughter spied a dolphin in the Mississippi last week.

A child's eye can do that, can hold a great river still.

We listen closely to the arguments of winter crows,

the air between each shriek all the more still.

My thoughts weren't all that interesting, so I let them go.

They wore themselves out, pretending to be still.