ONE YEAR AFTER YOUR DEATH

 

The winter sky reflects the river today,

as it always does this time of year,

each gray-blue sheet of ice

indistinguishable from the other.

The narrow shadows lengthen, drawing

fenceposts around the empty spaces.

Everything becomes clinical fact,

every step taken a punctuation mark,

though what has been said and what has

been left out remain unclear,

hovering like my breath before me.

How is it that I cannot see you now, yet

feel you closer than this wind,

this hardened earth, the bare limbs

of trees reaching like roots in reverse?

All I know today is that we are not made

merely of things that happened --

for better or worse -- nor the way

we smiled, or didn't, in an old photograph;

we are closer, I say, to the light itself

coming through the dusty window blinds,

holding us there, frozen as this day,

making us believe we are the subject,

that we are the ones standing still.

PARIS, 1911

 

We never made it to Paris, though the framed Steiglitz print of a rain-swept boulevard in that city -- everything gone gray, everything blowing to one side -- which hung for so long in our old apartment, is here with me now. The same thin tree, half-bare and bent beneath the weight of the sky, still reaches upward in defiance; the same street sweeper, shrouded from shoulders to ankles, stoops as though retrieving something dropped to the reflecting water below. The same shadowy figures and buggies in the distance continue to move slowly past. I can almost smell the rain through this curtain of years, can almost hear the whoosh and drumming of it, as if it were approaching us here today. For the moment, this scene rests in the narrow hallway which leads to the bedroom, awaiting the right wall, the right light. You, of course, are not here to ask; and on any wall, in any room, it seems only to get further and further away.

GUPPIES

 

Nothing grew in that drab one-bedroom

apartment, gray-blue light cast from the swerving

freeway below, the old service road following

beside it like a shadow, then turning

with a half-hearted shrug, a sad aquarium

of ordinary days circling, reflecting,

measuring themselves against us.

You moved the plants from one window

to another, hung them in the kitchen,

then the bathroom, fed them on eggshells

and coffee grounds -- all to no avail,

their brown and brittle ghosts too weary

to drift away, littering the floor and windowsills.

When we came back from that day trip

to the lake, the guppies you had just bought

were floating on the surface of the water,

their small incandescent bodies motionless,

tailfins like flames sputtered out, yet still glowing;

we knew, separately, without having to say,

that something larger had ended.

You left, at a ridiculous hour of the night,

a time normally reserved for old blues songs,

and weeks later, I did too, filling every bag

and suitcase with all the emptiness I could claim.

Even now, I wonder why we chose that place,

whether in hope or desperation; even now,

I wonder in what other rooms,

what other lives, we might have survived.

SECOND GHAZAL FOR TRISH

 

There's no burying you, no risk of forgetting;

though you would say the past is merely escape.

Whatever truce you made with life was brief,

its tentative agreements offering you no escape.

We were so young, what could we have known?

But I knew, even then, that love was more than escape.

Some days we read for hours, daylight shifting.

You said that poetry was the opposite of escape.

It was, we imagined, you and me against the world,

until the world itself managed to escape.

In the end, you pulled away from everyone,

your stubborn isolation a poor imitation of escape.

The prayer I offer now is one of silence,

the unspoken understanding of no escape.

YOU CAME TO ME AGAIN

You came to me again in my sleep, as if nothing had changed between us. You wanted to talk about old movies, talk about money and how it made no sense. I had longed for the sweetness of the mundane, the steady rhythm of the dripping faucet wearing away the porcelain of the bathroom sink, dust building its imaginary creatures below our feet. Most of all, I didn't want to tell you that you were gone, slipped silently from this world while you were unaware. But I wanted you to mourn the loss of yourself, as I have, this life of chores and small, fleeting pleasure, the stubborn yet fragile body which gave you so much trouble. Of course, you were better at explaining things, as you often did for me. The words I offer are half-formed and ordinary, hovering between us, neither moving nor standing still. Last week, your sister called to remind me that everyone in our dreams is but a different version of ourselves. If this is so, I am again talking to myself, while you are wondering whether to accept my explanation, whether to answer with words, or the silence we have agreed upon for so long. 

 

THE AFTERNOON SHE DID NOT DIE

 

Well, we go on -- one hand floating weightless as a balloon,

the body pulling itself downward again.

Our bones can only be lifted so much by this wind,

and the ocean is so vast before us.

Though a residue remains, like soot from

a long-neglected fire or a thumbprint on the soul,

and it belongs the way a bruise belongs,

the way our shadows spark and smolder without us,

solitary, when shut away for the night.

Today I walk with neither haste nor direction,

the sex and the sorrow of sad letter days

discarded, the fact of my name, age, and profession

lost to the angular wind. I carry your words

in one pocket, your silence in the other,

past the once-familiar storefronts of our past,

the soft glow of your childlike face gazing back at me

and back upon itself, a foreign postage stamp

on an antique postcard you bought but never sent.

How can I answer now, knowing this business of words,

this stooge's religion, to be diversion at best?

How can I speak when addressing you now means

addressing any tree, or cloud, or patch of grass?

You have grown vast by way of vanishing.

You always said it was an art, a trick you could not unlearn.

But we go on, each in our separate ways.

Our bones can only be lifted so much by this wind.

But the body is such a stubborn guest,

unwilling to leave, despite the late hour.

We may as well settle in, make up the spare room.

WEDDING DRESS, NEVER WORN, FOR SALE

 

In the newspaper photo, no larger than

a postage stamp, it resembles most

our childhood idea of a ghost, with neither head

nor hands visible, walking away, directionless,

gently billowing from side to side;

or something you might come across

in a museum, a remnant of love and devotion

gone hopelessly out of fashion, pressed

and pinned behind a case of glass.

A thin, watery light, seemingly without source,

softens the edges along one side,

cuts an angle across the torso like the page

from a book suddenly stripped of words.

This is not our story to tell, though

we can't help but imagine the details --

the blistering late night arguments or withering

silence -- which lead, inevitably or not,

to this sudden change of course.

Someone else can slip into the story

now, change the names, rewrite the ending,

all while admiring the intricate stitch work

weaving in and out, the extravagant

and unnecessary ties, beads, and bows,

white cumulous clouds rising at either shoulder,

the small, angled windows of lace

we can very nearly peer through.

ASHES

 

For weeks, then months, they sit undisturbed

on a makeshift shelf in your brother's musty garage,

the gray-white residue that once answered

to your name packed neatly into a surprisingly

small cardboard box, unadorned and anonymous.

Drums of exterior paint and car exhaust

surround you now, boxes of tools, and bulky

winter clothing packed in large plastic containers,

the ordinary stuff of life in process.

This is not the respite that I would have wished

or imagined for you, dear friend; though

you will be relieved to know that this stop is not

final, only a way station before the long drive

out of state where you will be scattered,

per your request, out near the railroad tracks

which run the length of your old hometown,

where your mind -- always too sharp and too busy

for its own good -- could wander with neither

weight nor interruption, and your body

could walk and walk never losing its way back.

It's a walk I can't make with you; but should I hear

the call of that Illinois Central, rising

above the chatter of birds and traffic hum,

declaring its own speed and distance, at just

the right angle, I'll say they're playing our song,

as if I could remember the words or tune,

as if the grain and grit of your slender bones

were somehow able to dance again.

CEMETERY GRASS

 

I remember, too, you brushing your hair

in the morning, never gently, but with a quiet

vengeance, as one would rake a field

full of fallen leaves. I imagined, still half asleep,

the sound of claws digging through

deep undergrowth, sparks of electricity

thrown this way and that, lightning flashing

with your frustration below the surface.

"I'm a hag!," you would call out,

and on a good day you would be laughing,

throwing that calico brush to the floor

like a weapon no longer of use.

But I loved your hair, thick and stubborn

its springs and tendrils always reaching upward,

shining like sunlight through whiskey,

threads of silver arriving much too early

for your liking. You said they were your ghosts

returning to have their say, too many

forgotten lives for you to keep track of.

Now, I dress for an early autumn, no matter

the weather, a far cry from the young man

you once loved; and you have become

another ghost to walk beside me, stirring

the trees, brushing the clouds aside as easily

as spider web, curtains, or breath.

THE LAST TIME

 

The last time I saw you, after so long apart,

I was, I confess, startled by how small you seemed,

as if you had somehow perfected a means of

walking away while standing perfectly still, or were

trying to slip out of this world unnoticed.

Your shoulder blades shown through your frayed

gray sweater, your blue eyes drifting further and further

into themselves. Perhaps our former lives always

seem smaller when we wander back in, or perhaps

we are merely the worry dolls of anxious gods,

worn smooth as river stone with time.

You were having trouble eating, you confided,

and trouble sleeping, too -- though

this malady was certainly not new to you,

your mind forever leaping from one thought to

another at the most inconvenient of hours.

Would I have wanted to know in that moment

that this meeting, seemingly insignificant,

was also a kind of parting, that you would soon

disappear into the shadow world of self, no longer

calling or answering the phone, no longer

reading, or bothering to venture outdoors?

Would I have spoken something disguised

as wisdom, or offered you some small comfort,

a prayer which you would almost certainly have refused?

Would I have thought to ask for forgiveness,

or simply to thank you for the years we walked together?

I do not know. But we parted with smiles that day,

not the slightest taste of bitterness lingering

between us. We were kind, as we had been

at the beginning, as we were meant to be, two

old friends softened into unexpected middle age,

adept, at last, with the familiarity of our leaving.

TELLING STORIES

 

When I remember now those bars and restaurants

along the avenue -- most of them long gone

and forgotten, along with those hopelessly younger

versions of ourselves -- I remember, too,

how you loved telling stories about everyone

within your line of sight, inventing detailed narratives

that were alternately comical, or tragic, sometimes

outlandish, sometimes quite believable.

You knew -- for your own belief in the story

was always essential -- who was on their first date,

and who was on their last, who was celebrating

their daughter's graduation, and who was in mourning;

you knew the man at the bar was out on parole

by the way he clutched his fork, eyes darting like silverfish,

knew which bartender was skimming money,

and which wrote poetry on the backs of napkins.

Now that you have returned so abruptly to silence

and to myth, I can't help but wonder

what you might have said about us, sitting there,

observing, as though we held some secret wisdom.

Would you have invented a better ending

for us, separately or together, one with a bit of nuance,

some humor, or at least a hint of romance?

Might there be an opportunity for redemption?

Sometimes I imagine our stories go on without us,

while we go about our routines, planning

and plotting, setting one book down to reach

for another, endlessly distracted, the lives

we once thought absolute becoming less and less

believable, in need of reconsideration.

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.

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

 

It was late in December, and you were

visiting from the coast, the thick snow falling

all around us as if in slow motion,

the tires of the car, so low to the ground,

rounding the corners in silence.

You were pointing out the streets and storefronts

you remembered, spoke of friends long since

moved away, turning down a side street

to point out the brownstone where you once lived,

its windows unusually small, its soft yellow light

seemingly from another time and place.

You put in that old cassette, fingers half frozen,

someone singing, as so many others have,

about home -- a little flat, a little off key, but familiar

enough that we remembered every word,

the way a kiss, or the touch of a hand can return

years later, as if they never had left.

How could I tell you in the stillness of that

moment -- you gazing dreamily into your past,

that this -- this very moment -- felt like home to me,

somewhere I longed to stay, if only for a while,

the breath of our words finding each other

without hurry, our jackets smelling of wet sky,

the frozen earth rising, imperceptibly,

to hold us there, before moving on again.

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.

BEFORE THE TOWERS FELL

 

New York that summer was a city half-hidden

behind miles of scaffolding, everything seemingly

being sandblasted, repainted, and refitted,

every rooftop and arch, every window

reaching upward toward a sky of shifting blue,

strangely calm above the grime and clatter of it all.

Walls of glass reflected the bodies of workers,

like the saints framed in the windows of

the crumbling cathedral across from our hotel.

Mostly I remember walking, from one borough

to the next, the city blocks so brief compared to those

seemingly endless boulevards of the Midwest,

the sights, sounds, and smells of a dozen countries

around every corner. I remember stopping for

lunch at the Empire Diner, drinks at the KGB,

remember the famous dancer that you recognized

from a movie sliding gracefully into an SUV,

as though part of a larger routine which no one

on the street had been made aware of.

We walked with aching hips and bandaged heels,

as though tourism was, in fact, as serious

a sport as any, as if youth demanded motion.

Tonight, on yet another bleak anniversary,

I listen, with the others, to the silence, gazing up

at those blue columns of light, as though

they were somehow holding up the sky itself;

I think of the two we once were... before.

Such a small and simple word that must bear,

against all odds, the weight of the unimaginable.

Were we walking into the past all along,

the evening sun beside us reflected a thousand

different ways, yet impossible to pin down?

When did distance itself become destination,

our paths reaching, like those long pillars

of light, separately, into what we could not say?

Where, dear friend, did we go?