SITTING WITH THE SICK CAT

 

We are up early, neither of us having rested

much during the night -- up and down

like sleepwalkers -- the neighbors yet to stir,

the first sunrise of autumn yet to break through

the chill-dark distance of the window.

The weather channel on the television plays

softly some French music from another century,

while I glance occasionally at the shifting patterns

of colors and light on the screen, the familiar

outlines of our state, country, then world,

then only the endless turn of borderless sky.

My daughter sleeps, safe and sound,

in the next room, growing taller and stronger

by the hour. But this small creature, having become

the center of her young life, struggles

to find the simplest comfort, circling my lap,

purring, wheezing, nodding off, letting

out a throaty exclamation that is part pain,

part surprise at the very insistence of it.

For the moment, this is our entire universe,

the hum and hush of it, the secrets

and complexities of its motion, the hot

pinpricks of starlight that pierce through flesh,

our common desire to understand.

There is not much I can do beyond this,

a feeling that as a father I am long familiar with,

but stubbornly refuse to get used to.

Our weariness is our common song this morning,

our breathing a shared language welcoming --

or at least acknowledging -- whatever

this uncertain day may bring.

MY MOTHER'S SAINT PAUL

 

Before my mother moved to the other side

of the country, leaving only her guitar for safekeeping,

she wanted to drive the city one last time,

to claim and to remember, startling me with

a sudden and unbidden openness,

I had never in my life witnessed from her.

She drove slowly, intentionally so, in that big white boat

of a car, down University Avenue, a street

we never ventured near as kids, nothing but

adult bookstores, porn theaters, and seedy bars.

We heard stories, locked the car doors when riding past.

Those old ghosts were gone now, along with

the small honky tonks she once played, underage,

the low-tiled ceilings yellow with smoke,

barely tall enough to accommodate an upright bass.

We rounded the smooth asphalt encircling Como Lake,

the zoo just up the hill, the same trickling waterfall

where as kids we were chased off by security.

The White Castle where she worked as a teenager

was still serving up greasy sliders with onions,

and the baseball diamond at Mechanical Arts school

where she played with the boys after school

looked very much the same to her eyes.

She speaks, lastly, of the childhood home

that never quite was, the collective nightmare

that she and her sisters somehow survived.

What does it mean, I wondered, retracing the maps

of our past, searching for structure, for patterns,

a road back that might in turn lead safely out?

We want, if nothing else, a narrative that makes sense.

This is the house where she learned to play,

she says, practicing for hours until her fingers bled,

and this is where she first saw snow falling

at the age of six, running outside in audible wonder,

this skinny girl from the hollers of Tennessee,

looking up and up, tasting each frozen star

upon her tongue, so cold they startled each time,

their small light disappearing on contact.

HOUSE OF WONG

 

I never knew what they spoke of, my mother

and aunt, on those lazy Saturday afternoons in summer,

safe within the sanctuary of that restaurant,

always busy, its large temple-like doors painted

black and red, trimmed in extravagant gold,

a world far removed from the inquisitive ears of children.

We could not have imagined what our mothers

had lived through, the house of early horrors

they had endured daily as children, how the bodies

of men became threats against them,

could not have known the senseless anger of

a father who denied even their existence,

could not have known the cause and effect

set in motion long before we arrived.

We knew only the weekly ritual of their meeting,

their sisterly fellowship over greasy egg foo yong

and moo goo guy pan, the endless bowls of

sticky rice that occasionally made its way back to us

in those small white containers, wire handles

and waxy folds, stamped with a stately red pagoda.

If we were very lucky, a fortune cookie might be

tucked away in a purse, something simple

and sweet, the mysterious messages inside them

offering a riddle, or a bit of wisdom for our

childhood minds to ponder, considering as we cracked

them open what might happen next.

ON THE TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF YOUR DEATH

 

Twenty years have come and gone, brother,

as quickly as the space between one

breath and the next, a shrug or sigh, or that pause

after I had asked you something mundane

and obvious, barely requiring words, though

you would answer just the same.

Twenty years gone and you are never

quite an absence; I still slip into the present tense

when speaking of you, still dream you that way,

still send occasional word back from this

strange and broken world. Twenty years, and still

I search for you as I drive the old north end neighborhoods,

though the houses of our childhood, weathered

even then, are no more, replaced by

new frames, new siding and additions, new families

stirring and shuffling inside, doing things they

will remember only decades from now.

Even the housing projects have acquired

a small semblance of respectability, gone now

the prison-like walls of cinder block we used to scale,

hot to the touch beneath the summer sun,

replaced by open patios, brightly-colored pots

of plastic sprouting zinnias, daylilies, and aspidistra.

Twenty years gone in the blink of an eye,

one frame of the scene deceptively the same

as the next, though something of the earth

has been altered, irrevocably so, each season

and slant of light rushing in blindly, barely noticing

who or what has been left behind.

TOBACCO

 

I never took up the family habit of smoking,

as my grandfathers did, both of them eaten away

by cancer -- or my grandmother Artie,

who spit that bug-colored juice into a milk jug

just off to the side of the open porch,

as discretely as one could manage, not wanting

the world to know that she chewed the stuff.

But when my mother was a girl of five

or six, she reminds me, she was startled and stung

by a wasp, and her blonde, skinny arm began

to balloon, her breathing soon reduced

to a labored wheeze, the blue sky wheeling

and the dark earth pulling its door

open beneath her, she remembers her uncles

running gangly-limbed out to the field

to snatch a few green and fragrant leaves,

dowsing them with well water and wrapping them,

gently, around her red and swollen skin.

"It must have worked," she smiled softly, her eyes

grown distant and wistful in her remembering,

"Because here I am." Did she mean merely

that we make do with the remedy we have on hand,

or that one poison sometimes erases another?

Some lessons, perhaps, are lost on a son

born and raised in the frozen north.

But I can kiss and wrap a wound, I can run

when my daughter is on the cusp of falling, or edges

too close toward the oncoming traffic.

We are both, to our occasional and mutual

wonder, stronger and faster than we could have

imagined only moments before.

MY DAUGHTER SPEAKS OF BIRDS

 

My daughter speaks of birds, speaks in wonder

of their sing-song call and response,

their endless reserve of resilience and guile

in the face of all manner of adversity,

the sudden and startling grace of their flight,

which, after all this time, continues to

amaze those of us standing

flat-footed on the earth below.

She asks which bird I might come back as

after I have departed from this life,

and how she will know it's me.

"Fly close to me three times," she suggests,

"then give out one call." This seems

a reasonable request, provided my new

bird-self can remember the details.

Our ancestors, after all, believed that

the soul was carried in, and away,

on the wings of the sielulintu,

that the whole of earth and sky were formed

from the broken shell of a fallen egg.

We settle, for now, upon a common jay,

brightly handsome but unassuming,

vigilant in watching over its family, never

straying far from its wooded home.

We have, I hope, the better part of this life

to draw our fragile maps,

perfect our signals, our language

of mutual understanding.

THE COUNTY LINE

 

(Tyyne Natus, 1906-1953)

Having waded through the green waves of ditch grass

and wildflowers, bramble grown nearly waist-high,

the prickly stems of young strawberries

and the private cosmology of gnats, we arrive

like casual explorers to examine the broken foundation,

hidden from view off the highway, of what once was

The County Line Bar, place where my grandparents --

only yesterday it seems -- served up drinks

to the always thirsty locals and those passing through,

and no doubt consumed as much as they sold.

Who's to say that these ruins are not sacred,

or their ghosts worthy of remembrance?

Just over there, my grandmother stood for what has

become my favorite photograph of her, framed

on either side by my grandfather and two regulars,

laughing, girlish and seemingly without care,

her small dog held close against her, one cloud of breath,

all but invisible, hovering in the crisp winter air.

This is how I want to remember her, her smile

like a sudden flash of daylight, the gold in her hair

shining, even in black-and-white -- before the loss

of a son on the other side of the world tore

something in her irreparably, before the alcohol bruised

and the weight of her days became too much.

I need to remember this moment, if only for myself,

to remember that she knew joy upon this earth,

the ease and gentleness of common things,

that she loved and was called beloved in return.