SNAPSHOT FROM MY MOTHER'S WEDDING

 

My brother stands just outside the door frame,

a small coffee cup in hand, while I sit on a folding chair,

thin and lanky in a too-big secondhand suit,

hunched forward, scribbling in a moss-colored notebook.

Neither of us particularly wants to be here -- though

of course we cannot say -- the pastel carnations pinned

to our chests belying our expressionless faces.

Our mother is marrying for the third time -- this time

to a good old boy from south Texas who no one

cares for or trusts more than the weather here in spring.

This was before he spit her name out like a curse,

his hands having become more menace than comfort,

and certainly before he held a shotgun to her head,

threatening to paint the wood-paneled walls with whatever

thoughts and dreams she might have left inside her;

and it's a few years before my brother lifted him

by the neck, dangling like a scarecrow in stocking feet,

eyes popping like buttons, holding him there calmly,

steadily, breathing hard but slowly, until our sister's shouts

convinced him to at last let go, allowing him to fall.

But this is not that moment; this is merely a snapshot

of that young man, having found a quiet corner

for a moment, writing his way towards all he cannot

know, his left hand curling above the page, pale sunlight

filtered from another room, hovering like smoke.

ONE SUMMER EVENING

 

I had forgotten

that it was raining

outside;

I had forgotten

even that there was

an outside,

sitting there with

you, waiting for

it to pass.

THE UMBRELLA MAN

 

The umbrella repair man in West London

will fix yours for a modest fee,

set its broken spokes upright again,

turning expertly those pin-screws

too small for ordinary hands.

He knows all about your bad luck days,

the series of calamities that brought you here --

the time the cat ran away,

or when your car wouldn't start

and you were already late for the funeral,

the morning you were nearly blown

into oncoming traffic, your hat

carried somewhere down the road,

your flimsy umbrella turned inside out

against the maddening wind.

He's here to lift your humble sail,

to repair what otherwise would have been

tossed aside, to right and steady your course,

if only in this small, ordinary way,

to send you back into the next downpour,

calm and confident, gray rain falling

hard all around you in a nearly perfect circle,

while you remain unbothered,

as though you were some kind of royalty,

as if you were hardly there at all.

FINNISH PANCAKES

 

We stand at the kitchen counter,

my young daughter and I, mixing together

the milk, flour, sugar, and eggs by hand,

and per the family recipe, we do not measure

too closely, and are careful not to over-mix.

This recipe, handed down from her great-aunts,

and much further back than that,

is more feel than science, I am reminded,

not so different than writing a poem or falling in love.

In other words, it's always the first time.

When in doubt, add more butter,

always remember who you are cooking for,

and don't be afraid of small mistakes.

We can never resist peeking into the secret realm

of the oven as it browns and bubbles up

over the rim of the pan, as if from the earth

itself, lovely in its imperfection. Moments later,

lingonberries and maple syrup dripping

from our lips, we agree that this must be the best

batch yet -- until the next, and the next.

This is sustenance, after all, but also

a kind of song, a calling back to a world

long past, before setting out into the bright

expanse of this new day.

7000 PAIRS OF CHILDREN'S SHOES ON THE CAPITOL LAWN

 

Where have you run to so quickly, dear children,

so fast and so frantic that you have flown,

wingless, from your shoes -- the mud-streaked sneakers

and Mary Janes, the summer flip-flops and rainbow

jellies, Western boots and boxy black Oxfords,

reserved for church and family weddings.

You have left no tracks, dear children, your voices

so high that they drip from the tips of branches,

or are disguised among the shrieks of passing birds.

But it's your songs which we miss the most now,

how you narrated the most mundane of days,

called out the clouds by name, laughed

so hard that we worried over your very breathing.

We have placed them here upon the lawn,

rows and rows of them, awaiting your return.

We have left a path between each for you to walk.

You do not answer, even with your silence.

Children, it's getting darker with each passing minute.

How will you find your way after sunset

and nothing on your feet? What could we have

done to keep you away so long?

THE HAT

 

Today the wind rushes up, seemingly

from the other side of the world,

not even tired from the journey,

barely pausing to consider the withered

leaves from last fall, or the plastic

chairs it tosses to the littered sidewalk;

it takes your favorite hat without apology

as if in celebration of itself, drags it

through the grocery store parking lot,

slowing just long enough to keep

you chasing, your hat turning and tumbling

mindlessly out into the busy street,

as you continue to follow, the world

around you fading, your awkward body

bent low to the ground, arms

reaching out for this one small thing,

one small piece of familiar, that you

suddenly fear you may never touch again.

NUMBERS

 

How many years, brother, since the world of our birth stamped us and walked away? How can it be the year of your death again, so soon? As your dates fade, so do my own; the line between those dates the smallest bridge we'll ever hope to cross. Your place of address likewise has disappeared, along with telephone, labor union, and social security numbers; the baseball statistics you mapped meticulously when we were kids. What good are such figures now, and what good the weight and measurements of the body? Every number fades, every combination cancelling the other, until all that remains is an empty circle leading back and back to the inscrutable, singular You.