FAST

 

You were always so fast, brother, even when we

were just kids back in the housing projects;

couldn't sit still, your limbs constantly fidgeting,

growing long and quick seemingly overnight,

your lankiness slowly turning into grace.

You were always in pursuit of something else,

something new, risky, while I, the annoying kid brother,

could never keep up, tagging along though I did,

daydreaming, awkward within my own skin.

You drank your first beer, kissed your first girl,

unclasped your first bra as though there was no time

to lose, as though they were the only things

that mattered in a life you could already see drawing

to a close, as though you were on a timeline

the rest of us could neither see nor understand.

When you said, as casually as though commenting

on the weather, that you'd never make it to forty,

I put it down to the whiskey, the dark romance of youth.

Only now, gone so many years, do you linger,

speaking openly as you rarely did before, no need

to rush, or to leave out any detail in the telling.

There is no road. We walk now side by side.

THE SCENT OF THINGS

 

What I disliked most about moving into all those

different places during childhood -- houses

of family, friends of friends, or rank strangers --

was that nothing ever smelled familiar.

The dark scarred wood of dressers and doors

breathed silently in and out, the salt-grease aroma

of food arose from pots and pans long ago

scorched and settled into their particular seasoning.

Even water boiling was somehow not the same,

the grimy tea kettle hopelessly shrieking out of key.

Soap, perfumes and perspiration clung to every fold

of fabric, laundered or not, the musty basements

and dry dusty attics, the damp funk of dogs

had claimed their territory years before we arrived.

Most days I felt that I had stumbled onto a stage set

without the benefit of lines, or even motivation.

Most days came and went with neither incident

nor reason, the cloudy stove clock ticking.

The air outside felt closer to the truth, even in a place

I did not know. I followed my own tracks from

the day before, addressed the birch trees as family.

When I slept, I curled beneath the covers, knees

to elbows, even in summertime, worried that if I lost

the signature of my scent, I might lose myself for good.

VINTAGE

 

I have reached the age when walking into

the local Goodwill feels like nothing so much as

a time capsule of every childhood store

I once wandered, unaccompanied, losing myself among

the latest shoes and clothes, the novelties,

televisions and stereos my family could never

have afforded, days when the mall was a great city

of the mind, and the better half of a day could be lost

thumbing the racks at Great American Music.

I have become, along with my once-youthful peers,

and every generation before us -- vintage,

a word we never would have uttered as kids,

clad in our secondhand polyester pants, creeping

above our ankles, our threadbare sweaters

and enormous collars, nothing ever fitting quite right.

But here are the parachute pants and windbreakers

I once longed for, those white Nike sneakers

with the red logo that all the bratty UMC kids had,

the leather jacket I paid next to nothing for.

I think also of you, my love, how you could always

find something of worth to be reclaimed,

a jumper, a blouse, or dress to mix and match

with something at home, an unexpected pairing,

as perhaps we were all those years ago,

complimenting each other before irrevocably clashing.

I think of the racks of cotton and rayon removed

from your closets, faux fur and pencil skirts,

baubles, beads, and broaches packed up and driven

from your empty apartment to the thrift store.

I see some things you might have liked,

but I'm not buying, just passing through today,

having run this last errand on your behalf,

the bright January sun offering precious little

warmth, casting its unwavering glare in my rearview.

SHAVING AT FOURTEEN

 

The tiny wisps of hair sprouting upon

my face, looking more like shadow or smudge

of dirt, seemed so timid and tentative,

so uncertain in their purpose, that

I made the decision to take my brother's

straight razor, lather my face with warm water

and Barbasol, and began what I assumed

would be a clean and simple shave.

I guided the blade as steadily as I could

across a face which suddenly seemed

treacherous, not quite my own, the contours

of cheek bones and chin much sharper

than I had expected, small, unassuming landmines

hiding beneath every pore,

Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

One by one, the tiny flowers of blood

began to blossom through that cloud of white,

and I emerged, defeated, my face covered

in bits of tissue, as if flags of surrender.

Later, my brother looked at me and said simply,

"Don't be in such a hurry to shave.

You'll have the rest of your life for that."

It was a gentle way, I suppose, of saying to

slow down, enjoy what was left of childhood.

The world of adulthood would come

soon enough, its own battles and rewards

yet to be named, its map lines gradually

becoming visible, as clear and undeniable as

your face gazing back from the mirror.

BAPTISM

 

The preacher pinches my nostrils between

thumb and forefinger, pushes me

backward, hard, into the chlorine sting

of the pool, its deep, still water immediately

closing in around me like a second flesh,

heavy and resolute. Once, then again,

I go under, the former self of my childhood

swimming away, an embryo in reverse.

The age of reason, against every obstacle,

has found me. I am old enough now,

my mother reminds me, to be held accountable,

old enough to suffer those unrelenting

flames through eternity, for lack of belief,

unintended blasphemy, or simple understanding,

Far overhead, the sun blazes on, unblinking,

the world surrounding it seemingly

turned upside down, wheeling, tumbling,

while here below, sudden slashes

of light pierce my uncertain periphery.

My instinct is to reach for it, to kick, flail,

break away; my instinct is to save

myself, to simply not drown -- as I feel I am --

whether by water, wine, or blood of lamb.

Then, as if it were unexpected, I am

pulled back into the world, sputtering, gasping,

the welcome shock of oxygen like pinpricks

to the lungs, as if I had been running for miles,

my first steps back on land uncertain.

This world is not my home, they are singing,

so happy to only be passing through.

But I don't know what could be better than

this -- the earth that accepts us again

and again, sinners to the last,

the one on which we write our songs, the one

that sings them back to us in return.

FIRST APARTMENT

 

When I think of being seventeen, I think

of that dingy one-room apartment above

the nameless laundromat, its dirty glass clouded

with steam, potato-sweat stench and clutter

of that windowless apartment, rickety wooden stairs

leaning wearily against the red brick outside,

ready to collapse, shifting even without the weight of steps.

I remember the anonymous maps of water-stained

walls, so thin that I could hear my neighbors

coughing and brushing their teeth, playing the same

sad songs over and over, could feel the vibrations

of the industrial washers and driers below, like invisible

lovers nearing climax, never quite arriving.

When I think of being seventeen, I think

of walking to school in the dim morning, the afternoon

bus ride to work, bleary-eyed, the endless hours

given over to others in the name of survival,

collapsing at night onto a musty mattress

on the floor; I remember the kindness and mercy

of young women who passed through,

bringing canned soup and the comfort of touch, so new

and foreign, the small curtains of their mysterious

rooms opening just enough to let in the light,

remember the Dutch Bar across the street,

the line of gleaming Harleys outside, where someone

seemed to get stabbed every other week,

and the elderly deaf mute down the hall signaling

to no one in particular, a pinched sound like

a distant bird rising from the well of her throat,

a word of caution, perhaps, or insight that

I could not understand, then or now.

NEW KID

 

We moved whenever the rent increased,

which must have been quite often,

packing up our things into liquor store boxes

and garbage bags, those once-familiar

rooms swept clean, white, our voices echoing back.

Perpetually the new kid in class, slipping in

during the middle of the year, I found

a desk near the back whenever possible,

my voice hesitant and far off, as if part of it had

been left in another town, when asked to

tell the class something about myself.

How could I speak of what I did not know?

We lived sometimes with strangers, or family,

friends of friends, not quite understanding

the politics, daily routines, or household rules,

breathing the strange smell of other lives,

sometimes not bothering to fully unpack our own.

There were so many kids and so many names

that eventually I stopped learning them,

stopped asking, stopped speaking my own.

My role was that of the other, a vague curiosity,

gazing out of winter windows, taking notes.

But I learned to love, if only in passing,

to love from a greater and greater distance.

And to all those who have passed through --

so quickly, so quickly -- I loved you all,

in my own peculiar way, and I can almost see

you now in my rear view, right where you've

always been, growing closer and closer

with each passing year.

D.A.V. THRIFT STORE

 

Another nowhere job in my early twenties was

the D.A.V. Thrift Store on University Avenue,

unloading and pricing junk merchandise

as it rolled in off the box trucks.

Used toasters, baby strollers, bedding,

odds and ends, those old man cardigan sweaters

which I had suddenly grown fond of.

Harry, already in his 60s, black brille-cremed hair,

pencil mustache, blue-green Merchant Marine

tattoo fading into itself, chain smoked

throughout the workday, shaking his head

in wonder at the myriad things

people were willing to buy.

He had eyes for Gina, the young, blonde cashier,

doughy-faced, quiet, and disarmingly naïve.

Then, there was the middle-aged man who was

permanently banned from the store

for obsessively sniffing women's shoes,

kneeling before the rack in a form of obeisance

or defeat, a grossly tragic or comedic form of

loneliness, depending on your perspective.

We were all doing time in our own way,

students, retirees, and the occasional criminal,

going nowhere on a daily basis.

Except, as it turns out, Harry and Gina,

who ran away together without notice, sending

a postcard-sized photo back months later

of no determinable location: trees bent

into question marks, and long grass waving,

sparks of blue water in the background.

"Wish you were here," was all it read.

And I would venture that every one of us,

without exception, certainly did.

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.