UNCLE WILLARD

 

Uncle Willard's hands were shaped much like

my mother's, though larger, with flat-tipped fingers

able to reach and find what my mother called

those fancy chords on the neck of his red guitar,

hollow-bodied -- a box, some players called it --

beautiful and mysterious to the eyes of a young child,

too shy to sing but eager to gather those secrets.

He'd come by on Saturdays, or Sunday after church,

to our place in the housing projects, asking

if she wanted to do some picking, over coffee,

knowing already that she did -- of course she did.

It was only later, much later, that my mother

told me how he had made the trip to the hospital

when I was born, after Dr. Sergeant -- the man

who had delivered her other four babies

and remembered them all by name -- told her

that I was dying, unable to gather and hold

enough oxygen, that I would not last the night.

He arrived, mom said, well past visiting hours, with

his guitar, and his worn and annotated Bible,

anointed my head with oil -- for he was a preacher

as much as a player -- reading passages of scripture,

praying the long autumn hours into morning;

and I am sorry now that I did not speak to him of

this during his lifetime; I am sorry that I have waited

all these years -- decades of unintended silence --

simply to thank him for drawing from my small lips

those first few gasping attempts at song.

THE UNSPOKEN

 

Part of Uncle Silas always resided in absence, the quiet and the still, his handsome face just off to the side in old photographs, gazing over his shoulder into the distance, or down at the solemn and familiar earth, smiling slightly, as if some joke or pleasantry had been spoken between them. Unlike my father, he took the cure for booze at the clinic in Duluth, telling no one, returning weeks later, clean-shaven and rested, as though he had merely driven to the grocery store and back. When he married, later in life, he didn't bother to inform the family, so averse was he to drawing attention to himself. He worked at the hospital up in Hibbing, learning the secret language of blood through the thumbnail lens of a microscope. He called it a dance. When ALS came to rob him of his touch, and then his speech, his limbs hardening like the branches of a weathered tree, he retreated further. I can see his sturdy frame receding, folding into itself, can see the old black-and-white television flickering, the news already old somehow. I can see the newspapers he could no longer hold stacked up beside him, all those words and faces gone blank, all those stories -- like his own -- waiting to be told.

By Ear

 

Sometimes, when I am writing, and I can't

quite hear the words in my mind, I speak them --

quietly -- so as not to frighten them away,

listening for the gentle resonance

of vowel sounds repeating themselves,

calling out to one another in a language of air,

their small sheltering caves echoing.

I listen for the well intentioned but uninvited,

the idea lacking grace, the bum note;

and I am reminded at times of my mother

who learned to play guitar this way,

listening closely to the Grand Old Opry

and the Hit Parade coming through that old

wooden radio, like a temple glowing,

pausing her mother's 78s again and again,

lifting its needle and setting it down at the start

to catch what didn't want to be caught,

to pull forth a sound she could already hear.

Sometimes I need to be reminded of

how to listen deeply, of the line that runs

directly from ear to heart, bypassing

all else, the sound of a single strum and a single

voice alone in a room, as simple as that,

the way all good songs begin.

BETWEEN BURSTS OF THUNDER, WE HEAR ROBINS SINGING

If we cannot learn the song

of these birds, calling through

the shuddering dark, let us at least

better study their silence.

If we cannot know the secrets

of their flight, let us at least

acquire the stillness they have

perfected on thin air.

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. 

 

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.

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.

SILENT GENERATION

 

I remember my mother's silence above all others,

the long unspoken song of it spooling out --

groggy, distant, and inscrutible, yet

as familiar as the Lord's, equally unknowable,

filling every gray room of my childhood,

breathed in like bits of asbestos,

invisible constellations slipped into the pockets

of my coat and carried off to school.

I could not have understood then that this

was the language she was born into,

brought from the old world into the new,

learned and learned again since she could remember,

through instinct and instruction, coming

to know the difference between each

subtle variety -- whether for piety or protection,

for stubbornness, fear, or the blessed forgetfulness

which she so longed for later in life,

forgetting even the names of my brother and me

when she returned from another round of ECT.

How could I know how many sharp edges of

the world she had swallowed, what secret materials

she had gathered in the lockbox of herself,

every day, week, and year of midnights labeled:

"Keep out of reach of children"?

How could I have known so little about the woman

who had given me life, who taught me to pray,

and washed my mouth out with soap

when I took the holy name in vain,

the woman who had scraped herself raw

on the gates of Heaven, only to spiral back into a body,

half-broken, hopelessly mortal, though never

forgetting the light she had left behind.

It would take many years -- long enough for another

generation to grow beside us both -- for her

to find the voice she lost, to speak openly,

unflinching, of unimaginable wounds and the many

names and guises of survival, while the silence

that had been instilled in me trembled,

turned within itself, searching for a single word,

any word, with which to reply.

WITHOUT

 

Some absences

take up so much room;

some silences

have grown too large

to leave the way

they came in.

CAESURA

 

Sibelius, too, near the end,

learned to love silence

more so than the notes which

he once constructed,

held one finger up to the air,

as though about to sign

his name -- but, of course,

his name was already there.

THE CORNER

 

Another punishment from childhood,

as familiar as going to church or setting

the dishes out for dinner, was being sent to stand

in the corner, intersection of shame

and boredom, to think about what I had

or had not done, to gaze into nothing

and plan my humble route back to forgiveness.

I learned well the corners of every home

that we passed through, their particular silences,

removed from the clamor of daily routine,

the television's canned laughter, voices rising

and falling, bellowing from room to room.

I memorized the vein-like cracks spreading

through the eggshell plaster, air bubbles

beneath the paint, the fine, stray hairs

and wisps of spiderweb long since abandoned,

knew precisely where two sheets of wood

paneling came together, imperfectly,

the slender nails that held them,

and where the tiny splinters slept hidden.

I couldn't help but wonder why I disappointed

God so often, and why I seemed so far

removed from his sacred image.

I learned to sleep standing up, unnoticed,

learned to count obsessively the ceiling tiles,

the inward folds of curtains, and wallpaper patterns,

learned to turn my mind off, and on,

and off again; I became still, became a very

fine singer in the auditorium of self.

I learned, through necessity, that my place

was just off to the side, resting

on the warm shoulder of my thoughts,

and that even the smallest hint of disobedience

could send me back to windowless solitude,

and that the wrong words spoken

could bring the whole structure down.

DISAPPOINTMENT AFTER A BRIEF WINTER STORM

 

We had anticipated far worse, as the prophets of winter skies had been promising -- or threatening -- for days, the word "crippling" suddenly commonplace in their weather-speak. We had expected to be stranded, shut in, with nowhere to go but further into a stack of new books, the warm engines of cats humming softly on our laps. But today we wake to crisp blue skies, walls of snow stacked neatly on either side of the street, cars already easing their way through with little resistance. Our responsibilities have found us again, our collective relief mingled with a strange sense of disappointment, not unlike what my mother must have felt when her Messiah failed to return yet again. We had longed to hunker down amongst the fresh winter silence, to claim the lengthening hours as our own, to bend our backs to help our neighbors before retreating to our newfound lives -- solitary, unhurried, underground.

FASTING

 

Then, for reasons unclear to any of us, our mother decided that forgoing food for one day, then two, would somehow bring her children closer to God. No more sugary bowls of cereal spooned and slurped over Saturday morning cartoons, no more nuclear-orange macaroni and cheese, or chicken and dumplings simmering, unhurried, on the stove. We were to subside, instead, on the spirit alone, consume the Word like bread, dutifully reading our Bible verses out loud, mouths parched, bellies rumbling in revolt. Why, we wondered in silence, had the Creator given us bodies to nourish if we were not meant to do so? Why was He in need of constant reassurance? Was not our belief enough? We knew only the immediacy of our hunger, our living room suddenly the proverbial wilderness of old, void of growth. We called out, like Elijah, like the Lord himself, waited for a sign or response. But we were no prophets, merely kids, our small hands trembling when at last we were allowed to break fast. And though the Lord felt further away than ever, we naturally said grace, said it like we meant it.

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.

THE DOUGHNUT MAN

 

The doughnut man seemed to turn up

overnight, no advertisement in the paper,

no fliers waving from the wipers of cars,

not even a shop sign in the window,

just the soft, milky glow of a kitchen light

signaling through the dark of early morning,

that heavenly smell wafting all the way

up and down 7th Street, drifting

outward with the smallest of breezes.

No one seemed to know his name,

where he came from or when, or even

whether he spoke English; he simply nodded

when we pointed out how many of each,

his thick fingers, surprisingly delicate,

placing each in a brown paper bag,

sending us kids on our way back home

where whatever small crime we may

have committed earlier in the day would

imediately be forgiven and expunged.

Even the body of Christ could not compete;

even the sun looked brighter and fuller

when shining through the greasy window

of that small bag, its warmth rising,

as if the day were something you could

keep close, hold on to, consume.

ALL THE LOVE WE LAY CLAIM TO

 

My great-grandfather Juho leans forward slightly

in his chair, as though about to speak

or to reach out his hand one last time

to his beloved, at rest in the casket beside him,

its doorway already covered in handfuls of flowers

and soil, heavy and damp, the solemn faces

of men in the background looking on, weary,

their funeral suits and ties virtually interchangeable.

But the mourner up front wears his work shirt

for this, the hardest labor he has endured

in a lifetime of work, his hands having carved

long into the night a seemingly endless array of roses

and filigree into the wood, as he had once carved

into the marriage bed, and the children's cribs,

hands that look suddenly exposed and empty,

lingering like uncertain birds too long into winter.

Could he have imagined this moment when he arrived

from that other world, with neither currency

nor language, to stake his claim and break this

ground open like a sacred book of secrets?

He must have known, without ever having to say,

that the earth we till must be fed in return,

and all the love we lay claim to must be met equally

with grief, solid as the ground on which we stand.

This, it seems, is the only bargain we are offered,

our baffled silence continually interpreted as assent.

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.

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.

MYSTERY GIRL

 

She said her name was

Silence, and to call whenever

I wanted to talk, or even

if I didn't -- and sometimes

especially if I didn't. I have been

doing so religiously for all

these years, with little to show

now but these lines written

to and from myself, and to the

nameless gods who hide

amongst the bruise-colored

clouds and answer, in their way,

only when it rains.