ONE YEAR AFTER YOUR DEATH

 

The winter sky reflects the river today,

as it always does this time of year,

each gray-blue sheet of ice

indistinguishable from the other.

The narrow shadows lengthen, drawing

fenceposts around the empty spaces.

Everything becomes clinical fact,

every step taken a punctuation mark,

though what has been said and what has

been left out remain unclear,

hovering like my breath before me.

How is it that I cannot see you now, yet

feel you closer than this wind,

this hardened earth, the bare limbs

of trees reaching like roots in reverse?

All I know today is that we are not made

merely of things that happened --

for better or worse -- nor the way

we smiled, or didn't, in an old photograph;

we are closer, I say, to the light itself

coming through the dusty window blinds,

holding us there, frozen as this day,

making us believe we are the subject,

that we are the ones standing still.

By Ear

 

Sometimes, when I am writing, and I can't

quite hear the words in my mind, I speak them --

quietly -- so as not to frighten them away,

listening for the gentle resonance

of vowel sounds repeating themselves,

calling out to one another in a language of air,

their small sheltering caves echoing.

I listen for the well intentioned but uninvited,

the idea lacking grace, the bum note;

and I am reminded at times of my mother

who learned to play guitar this way,

listening closely to the Grand Old Opry

and the Hit Parade coming through that old

wooden radio, like a temple glowing,

pausing her mother's 78s again and again,

lifting its needle and setting it down at the start

to catch what didn't want to be caught,

to pull forth a sound she could already hear.

Sometimes I need to be reminded of

how to listen deeply, of the line that runs

directly from ear to heart, bypassing

all else, the sound of a single strum and a single

voice alone in a room, as simple as that,

the way all good songs begin.

VISITING AMELIA EARHART'S HOUSE WITH MY DAUGHTER

 

We slow to a stop on Fairmount Avenue, the gentle swaying of summer Ash and Elm rising above us on either side, casting an imperfect net of shadows around our sneakered feet. The tall Victorian house has been well cared for, newly painted, as though lifted from another century and gently placed on this small slope of earth. People still live here, so we are mindful not to step upon the freshly-clipped lawn, or to gawk too long into the small curved windows above; though it's easy to imagine the face of that young girl looking out, dreamy and despondent in this foreign place, a harsh Minnesota winter swirling outside the glass. Was her adolescent mind already in flight, mapping a course amongst the heavens which no one else could see? My daughter and I wonder why some details seem clearer when farther away, ponder whether the sky is the greatest of all distances, or in fact its opposite. We have no schedule to keep, and nowhere in particular to be on this day, which makes such questions come more easily, if not their answers. The earth is tilting, though we cannot tell from where we stand; the afternoon sun is both warm and receding.

THE SCENT OF THINGS

 

What I disliked most about moving into all those

different places during childhood -- houses

of family, friends of friends, or rank strangers --

was that nothing ever smelled familiar.

The dark scarred wood of dressers and doors

breathed silently in and out, the salt-grease aroma

of food arose from pots and pans long ago

scorched and settled into their particular seasoning.

Even water boiling was somehow not the same,

the grimy tea kettle hopelessly shrieking out of key.

Soap, perfumes and perspiration clung to every fold

of fabric, laundered or not, the musty basements

and dry dusty attics, the damp funk of dogs

had claimed their territory years before we arrived.

Most days I felt that I had stumbled onto a stage set

without the benefit of lines, or even motivation.

Most days came and went with neither incident

nor reason, the cloudy stove clock ticking.

The air outside felt closer to the truth, even in a place

I did not know. I followed my own tracks from

the day before, addressed the birch trees as family.

When I slept, I curled beneath the covers, knees

to elbows, even in summertime, worried that if I lost

the signature of my scent, I might lose myself for good.

NAMES

 

My daughter's name was discovered by

her mother in a crowded bookstore,

as though it had already been

spoken for years, her middle name

crooned over the car radio

en route to the hospital through

a fresh dusting of December snow.

Some of our ancestors had names that

were changed and changed again,

anglicized by those who claimed

to know best, while others were deemed

unworthy to be recorded at all.

My aunt gave names to her stillborn,

keeping their sacredness to herself,

while our mother taught my brother

and I that our names were known

to the angels, and could be removed

from the Book of Life if we lied or

took the Lord's name in vain.

I thought of this whenever I wrote

in my Big Chief notebook, or read from

my children's Bible, as I thought of

my earthly father, who too remained

faceless, refusing me the family name.

But today, the winter solstice just

behind us, I can hear the gentle swelling

of choral music from the next room --

something that could only be

expressed in Latin, voices so light and airy they can only rise -- as my daughter

calls out one request or another

that I can't quite make out.

But, of course, I answer; I answer

without hesitation, as if this too were

a kind of song I stumbled into,

and must somehow learn on the spot.

REQUIEM IN WINTER

 

The last hands to touch you were not mine, nor those of any friend or lover, but the powder-blue latex gloves of paramedics, helplessly shaking you, tapping at your thin neck and wrist, while a deputy sheriff -- whose shoulder had broken in the door -- stood by, as if your small body sleeping in your own bed were a crime. Part of me must have stayed in that bed we once shared, but no part that could have saved you. Have we let you down, allowing you to leave this way? How could any of us have known all the different definitions of alone? The last hands to touch you lifted you cleanly from this life, wheeled you out and up the narrow stairs we climbed a thousand times. My mind cannot fathom more -- not the coroner's cooling board and creaking drawer, not the scalpel used to search for what was already gone. So I leave you here, where it is always the same cold morning in January, the door frame hanging like a broken cross in the entryway, and you tucked beneath a fresh white blanket like a child, almost smiling. A flock of wild turkeys has wandered up the bluff; the sky is so bright it blinds.

STEMS AND VINES

 

I didn't know the names of most,

other than the obvious, but I would take my time in that small corner shop

at Victoria and Grand, as if I had a plan,

pulling together a wild array

of color and design, jagged stars

and spears of shifting green,

delicate faces receding into their

velvety folds, varieties you might not

expect to find side by side,

but that made sense to my willfully

uneducated eye, bringing them

home to surprise you with.

Though you tended to eschew tradition

of all kinds, you allowed me this

bit of old-fashioned courting,

a word I have since grown to love,

the shy earnestness and ritual behind it,

its long, noble history, the eternal doorstep

we eventually come to, hoping for entry.

Those days are long gone,

as are you, and there's nowhere

to bring you flowers now,

no patch of earth or marbled stone,

not even a vase upon this dusty bookshelf.

The shadows here move without shape;

the wind crowded with your absence.

I wish I could remember

the names of those flowers now,

each spectacular species from another world.

They would be my words, as my words

in turn would bloom for you,

dark and glistening with the earth,

declaring, in no small measure,

everything you must already know.