DEAREST BULLY

 

I can still feel the rap of your knuckles,

brother, striking against my own,

stinging, bruising, like four faceless

skulls declaring their dominance.

I can still feel the weighted air shifting

between us, I who was never quite

quick enough to slip from beneath your

reach, and rarely, if ever, managed to connect.

There are things I cannot pretend

to miss -- the swift punch to the shoulder,

the ever-elaborate wrestling holds,

a perfect pearl of milky spit dangling,

like a lazy thought, above my face.

I do not miss the ghost you pretended

to be, silent, tugging, inch by creeping inch,

at the foot of our childhood bed.

Your ghost is real now, free to wander

room to room. And I no longer fear,

though the world you left compels us to.

I miss you in the ways you were soft,

the gentle humor you held close,

the vulnerable boy hidden from view.

I miss the moments you cried, unashamed.

Tonight, as always, I kiss my daughter,

let her snuggle in, as she wraps her

small fingers around my crooked thumb,

drifting effortlessly again into sleep.

It's the kind of calm that I live for,

and would fight this whole world to keep.

SOAP

 

God only knows what casual blasphemy

or stubborn refusal of chore had tumbled out,

but there I was, a child of four, made

to kneel upon the smoke-yellow linoleum

of the bathroom floor, a fresh white bar

of soap clenched between my teeth.

I was instructed only to wait. To speak directly

to the Lord and await his forgiveness.

I cannot say whether it came, or not, only that

the wait dragged on for what felt like hours,

a thousand years to the Creator being one day.

The soap did not make my mouth feel

any cleaner, nor make what came out of it

lighter, every uncertain lisp and stutter floating

like bubbles up toward the heavens.

I tasted only shame, a chemical bitterness

lasting the whole length of the day.

I understood words to be weighted things,

meant to be avoided whenever possible,

and God the Father, forever holding

his tongue, to always be listening,

always ready to silence with the back of a hand,

a sword, or a book thrown suddenly open.

FINNISH FUNERAL, AITKIN, MINNESOTA (1939)

 

It's impossible to know who is behind

the camera's noisy shutter, capturing these

mourners gathered beneath a haze

of summer sun, in somber black and gray,

gazing, without exception, at the dry ground.

Not so unusual, perhaps, for a people

known for their stoicism, for not making such

a fuss about this life, whose language has

many words to describe the existential weight

of snow and ice, but lacks any future tense.

The pallbearers stand on the back of the flatbed,

the hand-carved coffin between them,

men long accustomed to labor, not quite

prepared for this task, their faces shadowed

by grief, hands held close to their bodies,

as if already clutching at bits of earth.

My father is the baby here, knowing only

his own hunger, memorizing each face,

the sound of their voices, each particular touch,

while my mother, many miles away, has not

yet opened her blue eyes to this world.

My great-grandmother is about to move,

slowly, just outside of the picture frame,

becoming, seemingly overnight, part of what

we call history, that lengthening shadow

we each carry, yet never quite manage to catch,

that which shows no sign of stopping

for us, or even of slowing down.

FRUIT FLY

 

I peel a Clementine tangerine for

my young daughter, and immediately,

seemingly willed into existence

from thin air, there you are, circling,

assessing, navigating the smoothest

possible surface on which to land.

No time, I suppose, for introductions,

or easing your way into a room.

Your lifespan here, after all, is so brief,

and your thirst relentless, ancestral.

Strange, then, to consider our shared DNA,

invisible ladder reaching between us,

the opposing engines of our bodies,

our separate intuitions and needs,

ostensibly whole worlds apart.

Yet you are somehow always familiar,

inventing and erasing yourself on

the shifting periphery, bumping into

the white plastered walls, as if motion

itself were the only true means

of survival, and sweetness -- the very

sweetness of this world -- worthy

of every possible risk.

WE ARE STILL HERE

 

We are still here, do you understand,

standing amidst the mountains

of rubble where our children now play,

their faces reflected in the shattered glass

of storefronts and depots, the stagnant

water filling in the tracks behind you.

We have scorched the earth to ash

in order to welcome you, burned down

the humble homes our fathers built

so that you may not know their comfort.

There will be no bed for you here,

no rooms for you to enter, not a single

floorboard for you to walk upon.

For we are still here, do you understand,

singing the old songs and the new,

whistling past the graveyards you have

built as swiftly as we can fill them.

We have, you will see, made room there

for you. We are not uncivilized.

We give you seeds to fill your pockets.

We build statues of you in the snow.

We stand, you will come to know,

as the deep forest stands, unyielding,

breathing in the entirety of sky at once.

We are still here, as even you can plainly see.

We will continue to be here until not

a single blade of grass remains,

nor a single mayfly buzzing in flight,

nothing but the breath that breathes life

into these words, however simple,

upon which we will stand, beginning anew.

THE BUGGY

 

You won't remember now being quite

so small, combing that long stretch of Carolina

sand for rocks, shells, anything shining,

the ocean insistently whispering its secret

language, untranslatable upon land.

Nor will you recall the wheels of your stroller

edging closer and closer to the waves,

so slowly that none of us took notice,

none but that stout Eastern European woman

in head scarf, waving her thick arms,

shouting in alarm, "The buggy! The buggy!'

For one flashing moment, my heart leapt

like a startled fish, believing she might actually

be right, that you might be spirited away

by the unforgiving Atlantic, to Scotland

or Wales, those fabled white cliffs of Dover,

closer to your family's ancestral home

but further from the ones who love you here.

But, of course, you were right there

when we turned to look, your beach hat

shielding your eyes, your chubby legs

just beginning to learn what they're for,

ready, soon enough, to carry you anywhere.

MYSTERY GIRL

 

She said her name was

Silence, and to call whenever

I wanted to talk, or even

if I didn't -- and sometimes

especially if I didn't. I have been

doing so religiously for all

these years, with little to show

now but these lines written

to and from myself, and to the

nameless gods who hide

amongst the bruise-colored

clouds and answer, in their way,

only when it rains.