TO THE YOUNG WOMAN WEEPING WHILE DONATING PLASMA

 

I cannot know your story -- the river of time

and circumstance that brought you here

today -- only this slender moment of quiet

unraveling, weighted tears pooling and tumbling

from the corners of your almond eyes,

gray-blue and receding from view, your face --

so young -- bruised already from within.

Grief has come to claim you, this much is clear,

blurring your edges, as though submerged,

even in this clinical afternoon light;

grief gazes back, unblinking as the day itself

through the clouded lens of your phone.

The little I know, or at least pretend to believe,

I cannot speak, not wanting to be the unwelcome

stranger who pierces your necessary solitude.

I would not trouble you with all the heartaches

yet to come, as they most certainly will;

I would speak only of the moments between,

moments of ease and exhalation where

you could alter course, arranging possibilities

like so many books upon the shelf. I would

remind you simply to raise high the window blinds,

to leave the door ajar, so that when joy

returns, it will know just where to find you.

GUPPIES

 

Nothing grew in that drab one-bedroom

apartment, gray-blue light cast from the swerving

freeway below, the old service road following

beside it like a shadow, then turning

with a half-hearted shrug, a sad aquarium

of ordinary days circling, reflecting,

measuring themselves against us.

You moved the plants from one window

to another, hung them in the kitchen,

then the bathroom, fed them on eggshells

and coffee grounds -- all to no avail,

their brown and brittle ghosts too weary

to drift away, littering the floor and windowsills.

When we came back from that day trip

to the lake, the guppies you had just bought

were floating on the surface of the water,

their small incandescent bodies motionless,

tailfins like flames sputtered out, yet still glowing;

we knew, separately, without having to say,

that something larger had ended.

You left, at a ridiculous hour of the night,

a time normally reserved for old blues songs,

and weeks later, I did too, filling every bag

and suitcase with all the emptiness I could claim.

Even now, I wonder why we chose that place,

whether in hope or desperation; even now,

I wonder in what other rooms,

what other lives, we might have survived.

FOOSBALL

 

Sometime during the night -- tall, silent trees still

breathing the lingering heat of daylight --

my older brother and his high school friend released

the unattended foosball table from the confines

of the White Bear Lake Yacht Club, where Scott and Zelda

once whiled away their early days, their smart

summer whites billowing like sails against the blue,

like all those blank pages waiting patiently to be filled.

But my brother, in his cut-off jeans and rust-colored

tank top, would not have been thinking of this;

nor would he have considered the first quick sketches

of this game on a matchbox in some British pub,

nor the poet who perfected it so that the children of

the Spanish Civil War could still know laughter and play.

He would have been walking calmly, deliberately,

laughing, I suspect, under his breath with his buddy,

up the four long blocks to our falling-down house

with its equally falling-down porch and garage,

his dying car on makeshift blocks beside it.

He might have reminded himself, as he often did

to me, not to run or look afraid. To be cool.

The next day he polished it the way he polished

that car, a kind of blessing, and we played

outside on our uneven patch of lawn, islands

of dry dirt on either side, bright sun shining down

upon us, and our newly acquired pitch of green;

and for one brief moment, the day, the neighborhood,

if not the world itself, belonged to us alone,

as we spun those black handles into a steady blur,

breaking our own rule, showing off, just to see

who could hit the hardest into that narrow goalpost,

its white plastic ball echoing, even now.

BETWEEN BURSTS OF THUNDER, WE HEAR ROBINS SINGING

If we cannot learn the song

of these birds, calling through

the shuddering dark, let us at least

better study their silence.

If we cannot know the secrets

of their flight, let us at least

acquire the stillness they have

perfected on thin air.

MAN AND CROW

 

No one remembers now how or when, but the crow took to Grandpa Nels, and he took to the crow, until it began to follow him far into the field, the two of them talking about whatever it is that a man and a crow discuss -- the likelihood of rain, the ordinary things that matter most, or what it means to be alone on this earth. When he carried water from the well to the barn, again and again, the crow tagged along. When he fed the fox that slept in the shed, never bothering the turkeys in their pens, the crow kept watch. Grandma said the bird was so smart it could count and answer your questions, and always knew when you were talking about it. They took to speaking Finnish, the way they did to keep the kids from listening when they argued. They forgave it for stealing coins and buttons, a thimble, and even Grandpa's teeth, which were eventually returned. When it vanished, no one knew just why. It simply had crow work to do, perhaps a family of its own to watch over. But it left its absence in all the places it had been. Grandpa's shadow grew thin, his body frail, and whatever had been spoken between them remained so, white clouds sweeping clear the summer blue sky.

SECOND GHAZAL FOR TRISH

 

There's no burying you, no risk of forgetting;

though you would say the past is merely escape.

Whatever truce you made with life was brief,

its tentative agreements offering you no escape.

We were so young, what could we have known?

But I knew, even then, that love was more than escape.

Some days we read for hours, daylight shifting.

You said that poetry was the opposite of escape.

It was, we imagined, you and me against the world,

until the world itself managed to escape.

In the end, you pulled away from everyone,

your stubborn isolation a poor imitation of escape.

The prayer I offer now is one of silence,

the unspoken understanding of no escape.

PERSONAL EFFECTS

 

The family says that Uncle Leo was too sensitive

for the army, prone as he was to daydreams

and poetic whimsy, his soft, pale hands designed

for painting a canvas or cradling a violin,

not the long rifle and bayonet slung over his shoulder.

In the sepia-tinted photos, he looks like a 1950s

matinee idol on location, killing time between takes.

But he could shoot, like any Finnish farm boy,

could drop a buck or a boy in the wrong uniform

if need be. He just didn't understand the need.

Maybe he never recovered from the scythe

striking his head as a boy, hiding among the tall hay.

Maybe something inside him just kept falling.

When he drown at the foot of Mount Fuji,

the dark envelope of water sealing him indefinitely,

Grandma Tyyne went mad with her grief,

following him there a few short months later.

What was sent back wasn't much -- his boots shined,

uniformed pressed and folded, a few small

souvenirs, family photos, Japanese coins and yen.

I like to think that the birthday card he bought

for aunt Leona made it safely back , warped

only slightly by water, its smudged blue letters

looping back on themselves like waves.

I like to think she smiled at his sweetness

before her eyes clouded and all but disappeared.