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.

BLUES FOR ROBERT BLY AND HONEYBOY EDWARDS

 

Robert Bly and Honeyboy Edwards would have

understood each other well, I think.

When I saw Honeyboy, already in his 90s

by then, small and sinewy, the bones of his face

shining through, his skin polished to

an elegant sheen that only comes with age,

he was playing to a small lecture hall

at the university, and when called back

for an encore, proceeded to play the same tune

he had played two songs in. He must have

known hundreds of songs by then, dating back

to the beginning of this American century,

but he wanted us, for whatever reason, to hear

that one again -- or he was simply playing it

for his own amusement, the particular joy and beauty

of doing whatever you damn well please,

another gift granted only to those who endure.

It reminded me of Bly, reading the same line

of poetry over again, pausing, gazing up

to see if it had resonated with those in attendance.

This, too, is the blues after all -- repeating

the refrain one has just sung, letting it linger,

roll off the tongue once more, in no hurry

for the resolution that may or may not come.

There is no end to this kind of song.

When a great singer says, "Take it from the top,"

what they mean is, "Go back all the way."

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

 

It was late in December, and you were

visiting from the coast, the thick snow falling

all around us as if in slow motion,

the tires of the car, so low to the ground,

rounding the corners in silence.

You were pointing out the streets and storefronts

you remembered, spoke of friends long since

moved away, turning down a side street

to point out the brownstone where you once lived,

its windows unusually small, its soft yellow light

seemingly from another time and place.

You put in that old cassette, fingers half frozen,

someone singing, as so many others have,

about home -- a little flat, a little off key, but familiar

enough that we remembered every word,

the way a kiss, or the touch of a hand can return

years later, as if they never had left.

How could I tell you in the stillness of that

moment -- you gazing dreamily into your past,

that this -- this very moment -- felt like home to me,

somewhere I longed to stay, if only for a while,

the breath of our words finding each other

without hurry, our jackets smelling of wet sky,

the frozen earth rising, imperceptibly,

to hold us there, before moving on again.

SHAVING AT FOURTEEN

 

The tiny wisps of hair sprouting upon

my face, looking more like shadow or smudge

of dirt, seemed so timid and tentative,

so uncertain in their purpose, that

I made the decision to take my brother's

straight razor, lather my face with warm water

and Barbasol, and began what I assumed

would be a clean and simple shave.

I guided the blade as steadily as I could

across a face which suddenly seemed

treacherous, not quite my own, the contours

of cheek bones and chin much sharper

than I had expected, small, unassuming landmines

hiding beneath every pore,

Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

One by one, the tiny flowers of blood

began to blossom through that cloud of white,

and I emerged, defeated, my face covered

in bits of tissue, as if flags of surrender.

Later, my brother looked at me and said simply,

"Don't be in such a hurry to shave.

You'll have the rest of your life for that."

It was a gentle way, I suppose, of saying to

slow down, enjoy what was left of childhood.

The world of adulthood would come

soon enough, its own battles and rewards

yet to be named, its map lines gradually

becoming visible, as clear and undeniable as

your face gazing back from the mirror.

DEMONS

 

In my mother's view of the world,

a world long since passed

into memory and family lore, nearly every

affliction of the body, psyche, or soul

could be ascribed to demons.

There was the demon of alcohol, persistent

and familiar as the setting sun, the demon of lust,

the demon that caused epilepsy, and

my stammering lisp as a child.

Demons were, it seemed, everywhere --

in constant need of being cast out, sometimes

forcefully, in the sanctum of the church,

and in our humble living rooms,

the preacher gone red-faced with intent,

his voice commanding, one tiny river

of sweat trickling down his cheek.

My mother said, more than once, that my father

must have been possessed by demons

which had caused him to gamble and drink,

to womanize, and abandon his children,

running like a fugitive from one end

of the country to the other, and back again.

She didn't mean it metaphorically.

She meant, I think, that no man could

possibly be purely evil without

some assistance, that there must be

an unseen hand holding the map,

guiding, relentlessly turning his back to the world,

and sweeping clean his tracks

until the man himself, however upright he

had begun, could no longer be seen.

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.

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?