SMOKING IN THE MOVIES

 

The legendary smokers up on the big screens

have all but vanished from our lives,

which I suppose is just as well, there being

precious little glamor in its end result.

But there was a time, not so long ago, that

we believed in that nameless hero, strong and silent,

smoking while gazing out upon the plains, far

from everywhere, and the villain, killing simply for

whimsy and fame, always one step ahead.

We believed in the femme fatale blowing smoke

rings that floated off like ill-shapen hearts,

and the hapless men falling over themselves

to offer a light to the blonde bombshell.

We followed the descent of the good girl

gone bad, the private thoughts of the lonely P.I.,

lighting up as he walked on, fading from view.

We winced at the callous boss and his wet stogie,

sighed in the obligatory afterglow of a motel room;

we fell in love with the passing stranger,

even when we knew better, the ingenue gazing

across a smoke-filled room, smoke like a veil

between illusion and the all-too-real.

But we no longer believe. We are, it seems,

wizened, streamlined, our words, like the thoughts

that lent them, reaching upward in wafer-thin

knots, weighing no more than air.

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.

SEARCHING FOR THE POET'S GRAVE

 

They are searching for Lorca's remains again

today, their big yellow machinery

nudging and clawing at the silent earth,

scooping out rows and rows of doorways

along this withered patch of soil.

Though no one is here now to answer them,

no one to say, No thank you, sirs,

I'm not interested in returning,

and your Bible is no map for my soul.

But they have not questioned the cloud formations

in passing, nor the monuments of generals,

nor the crooked olive trees, unwaveringly lazy

in their beauty, witnesses to all.

No one has called in the sun and moon

to spit out their long and secret songs, explain

their absence when needed most.

No one has yet knocked upon my door,

demanding to peruse the shelves,

where they would surely find the one they seek,

still speaking, unafraid, his linen suit

not even wrinkled.

But the workers, naturally, will go on

with their labors, long past sunset,

coming back empty handed, the shapes of

new countries emerging through their shirt-sweat,

while the poet just goes on dreaming,

as he did a hundred years ago,

the witnesses to his whereabouts

now seemingly everywhere.

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.

WHAT WE CARRIED WITH US

 

It couldn't have been much, whatever

could be tossed into two plastic garbage bags

and carried, from the station wagon

to the front porch of our foster home,

a word which we had neither heard nor spoken,

but one that would become as common

as a surname, shorthand for others to describe us.

We carried our toothbrushes and combs,

clothes and underwear, carried whatever toys

or stuffed animal could be retrieved,

while the cacophony of sirens sped our comatose

mother to the cold comfort of hospital rooms,

plastic roses, a potpourri of pills to replace

the ones which had not managed to kill her.

We took a blanket or two, worn and pilling,

superhero pajamas, damp familiarity

of our own sweat-smell.

But mostly, we took all that we could not

speak of -- the unshifting weight which

an absent father leaves, ladder rungs of anxiety

we could neither climb nor give name to,

the mutual shame of bed wetting

and the sudden difficulty of common speech.

We carried each other, brother, hardly

aware that we were doing so, always balancing,

always stronger than we looked or imagined.

We carried that grief until it settled in,

quiet and unobtrusive, a gentle tune humming

through the bones. I'm singing it now, though you

have been gone now these many years,

pausing just long enough for you to whistle

through the grass blades, bend that grosbeak's note

just so, rustle the cotton shirts and work pants

upon the line in a pantomime of breath,

the familiar motion of walking away.