MY GREAT GRANDMOTHER AT 75

 

In the photo, grown cracked and distant

with age, my great-grandmother Kustaavas is seated

outdoors, her plain dress dignified, unadorned,

a large birthday cake balanced on her lap.

Her face, remarkably unlined, looks on, quizzically,

head tilted slightly to one side, a thin glimmer

of a smile shining forth through shadow.

She is centered perfectly in the frame,

as she was undoubtedly in life, yet clearly seems

unaccustomed to such a fuss being made.

In the lower left, the back tire of a Model-T

casts its lengthening shadow, a tangible bridge

stretching from one century to the next;

while further off to the right, a milk pale stands

as a reminder that this life is a life of work,

its chores never finished, and that cows, chickens,

and children pay little heed to the sabbath.

But in this moment, at least, she appears content

with it all, the moment of stillness well earned.

In the next, she will draw her breath in deeply,

blow the candles out like so many sparks

of light in the night sky, out past the camera's

shuttered lens, beyond her own imagining,

far enough to find us here, still in need of such light.

Send more, Isoäiti, send more.

ERRAND

 

My mother had already broken the eggs,

measured out the bleached white flour, before

realizing that we were out of sugar.

Which is how I found myself -- a child of seven,

hesitant to speak or approach anyone -- standing

at the rusty screened door of my grandfather's

cabin with instructions to borrow a cup.

No one had mentioned this stranger before,

released from prison to die in his own way,

away from others, like any mortally wounded animal

will do, absence being the last and only

dignity most of us can summon.

No one had warned me of the skeletal visage

which emerged, hairless and scowling,

watery blue eyes sinking deep beneath the frames

of his black horn-rimmed glasses.

I looked down, then away. I stammered out

my small request, met merely with a cold, inscrutable

glance, bearing little or no curiosity as to my

existence, the grandson who happened to share

his date of birth, letting fall only a kind of

mumble-grunt meant to convey a simple No,

and a not-so-gentle closing of the door.

Only decades later did I understand why

my mother refused to go herself,

or that the instinctual, visceral fear which I felt

was, in fact, justified. But for now, I was

content enough simply to be walking away,

unconcerned with the minor failure of my mission,

while the old man receded into the confines

of self, offering only the slow certainty

of his departure, a bitter shadow lengthening,

imperceptible, like blood seeping out

from beneath our feet.

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.