SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE NEIGHBORHOOD CAFE

 

The elderly couple sitting near the window, here amongst the midday cacophony of voices climbing over voices, coffee cups clanging like broken bells, enjoys their meal in measured silence. You might not notice them at first, this small island of calm, cloud-gray and unassuming, their subtle movements reflected in the glass behind them. They nod, shrug their shoulders in bemused acknowledgement, passing small packets back and forth, as if they were coded messages. Do not mistake this for nothing. Do not presume they have said all there is to say in this lifetime. They have, it seems, moved beyond the boundaries of words, beyond the Yes and the No, with little need now to ask for what lies plainly here between them.

COUSTEAU

 

We liked the sound of his voice, balanced

somewhere between childlike wonder

and the calm certainty of knowing,

filtering through the small television speaker.

We liked his red cap bobbing against

the shifting blue, his sun-weathered skin,

hands gently cradling one alien lifeform

or another, startled into being, reaching out

in all directions at the expanse of air.

We loved most the strangeness of it all,

every new thing in search of a name,

this kingdom so far removed from the drab

certainty of classrooms and housing projects.

How else could we have known that

the world, like us, was made mostly of water,

how else to imagine our small bodies

descending into darkness unafraid,

suddenly weightless among the current,

how else could we have ever believed

in all the beauty we could not see?

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.