WHY I LIVE IN A COLD CLIMATE

 

Because the sound of ice cracking beneath my feet reminds me of wooden ships creaking as they awaken for a journey. Because that journey can be long and arduous. Because frost collecting in the corners of darkened window glass becomes a kind of map, more reliable than starlight alone. Because I always liked you in a hat, and our bodies draw sudden sparks beneath the drab woolen blankets. Because our breath here can be seen as easily as any cloud passing, our silence sent skyward along with our prayers. Because in winter we walk easily upon water, never questioning the river's current or where we might have left the shore. Because you can follow the tracks of those who have trudged through the snow before you, making a path for others yet to come. Because sound travels far in the cold, and we have learned to listen. Because the Cardinals and house finches remind us to sing, in spite of it all. Because there are as many names and varieties of snow as there are for their Creator. Because whenever you drop a glove here, a stranger will inevitably call out, saving you yet again, and your saying thank you is really an offering of love you cannot quite admit to. But you feel the warmth of that fabric once again encircling your fingers, small but undeniable, feel the pinprick ache of blood's knowing return, and that may be enough for now.

COMPASSIONATE RELEASE

 

My grandfather came home from state prison

hardly noticed, came home simply to die

in peace, or rather, in whatever semblance of

peace a man like him could be granted --

the memory of past sins having their final say,

while cancer gnawed slowly at his bones.

Though not slowly enough and not

painfully enough, my aunt later quipped.

On that first, and last, hospital visit

he resembled most, to my young eyes,

the Egyptian mummy sleeping under glass

at the science museum -- that bleak

skeletal grimace glowing ghostly through

the centuries, one long, withered finger

pointing toward, or reaching out for,

what we could only imagine, ancient gauze

dangling like flesh in the clinical light,

the merely human drawing gasps of fear

and fascination from all of us gathered there.

I feared this husk of a man, and for him,

feared him instinctively, not quite knowing why.

My mother bent low to whisper to him

the forgiveness which her faith demanded,

as one would comfort a suffering child,

before walking us kids solemnly back

outside, the night suddenly quiet, hesitant,

the winter sky hanging flat and low

against the earth, our small breath visible,

hovering in the air between us.

WHEN, FOR A MOMENT, I GROW WEARY

 

When, for a moment, I grow weary

from the endless news reports of bombs

dropping from bleak winter skies

and the faceless tanks nudging their way

through streets clogged with rubble,

I turn my mind instead back to that little girl

cradling her ragged doll at her side, there

in the long silence of the subway tunnel

that for tonight has become her bed.

I want to tell her that everything will be alright,

even if that is another bedtime fable,

to sing to her gently, in her own language,

as I would to my own child, who sleeps

at this moment in a warm tangle of sheets,

mouth agape, dreaming, I imagine,

of flight, and of saving this broken world.

I have not yet found the perfect words

or melody to make this promise happen,

cannot quite decipher my own voice

through a distance as immeasurable as this,

this lullaby merely a litany of questions

turning endlessly back upon itself.

Is the lesson simply that we learn no lessons,

that the old names must soon be worn

smooth to make way for the new?

Still, I continue, offering the only comfort

I can summon, the stubborn light of

one still standing, unable to turn away.

TURN YOUR RADIO ON

 

Walking past the small church

on the corner today, so unassuming

that you might miss it, I stopped

to gaze at the radio tower, its thin needle

nearly piercing the chilly blue sky,

a steeple once lit with the living spirit,

or so we were assured as children.

I could almost hear my mother

singing those old country hymns

across the crackling airwaves,

long out of fashion, but reaching out

for whomever might need them.

"Get in touch with God," she would sing

in earnest, "Turn your radio on."

What strikes me now is the silence,

not of reverence but of neglect,

as if the neutral brick and worn boards

were sinking into themselves.

Perhaps it is the quiet of knowing,

the calm certainty of not having

to meet every voice with your own.

But the old transmitter glints brightly

in the sun, reaches toward the heavens,

as if in expectation, and the songs

my mother once sang are now

mine alone to hum as I walk on by.

A CALL IN THE NIGHT

 

What to make, then, of this lone bird calling out, long before the first glimmer of morning light? Maybe she has dreamed a human dream, I think, and woke in a terrible fright. Or maybe, like all of us, she just wanted to make sure that the world was still here. She hears the sound of her own voice echoing, one small proclamation among the silence of leaves and stars, her voice declaring only her own bird-ness. She feels the breeze, the air shifting imperceptibly around her song, feels the breath of something larger stirring in the dark. And she is at ease once again.

HAIRCUT

 

There was a time when you would

never have let her get this close,

a time when neither of you could be in

the same room for more than a moment.

Her touch was not of your concern,

her words no longer yours to decipher.

But you have no one else to ask

to help with this most ordinary of tasks;

so here you sit, pale and shirtless

in the porcelain chill of bathroom light

as she trims and snips, seemingly

at random, cautiously maneuvering

the electric trimmer across the contours

of your skull, rounding the arches

above your ears, stepping back to consider,

then moving closer, as a lover might

that moment just before a first kiss.

You will not speak of this as an intimacy.

You will manage a simple Thank you,

reaching quickly for the worn shirt

hanging haphazardly from the radiator,

as if suddenly realizing that you were late

for one appointment or another, or that

something you could not quite name

had startled you into movement.

USED RECORD STORE

 

You can smell the basements of long ago

here within these cardboard sleeves,

slender spines creased and breaking apart,

can almost feel the dampness seeping through

the cold cinder blocks, stale cigarette smoke

and voices turned suddenly into ghosts.

You can hold the shroud of another world

half-awake, waiting to be rediscovered,

can wander aimlessly the long, narrow aisles,

the way you did when you were still a kid,

hungry for any sign of life to find you.

You thought those songs would last forever,

the way summer did in every chorus,

repeating endlessly into a silence not quite.

You thought that girl who taught you

to kiss would stay just a moment longer.

the sound of her laughter like the incantation

of something just beyond your reach.

You are still searching, thumbing the racks

for something you may have missed,

still looking and listening for a message

that has taken so long to find you.