Sometimes

Sometimes a kick lights me up.

A flash bulb in the nerves.

Sometimes my body jolts from 

this being alone.

This freedom from you 

can make the hairs on my arms salute.

Freedom. 

Sometimes, it crackles. 

I'm sorry, darling.  It's only sometimes. 

Like today on that ferry boat.

Leaned hard against the helm. 

I was captain of the ship. 

The ocean parted. 

I felt kissable. 

But we aren't made to like alone.

Stranded on shore with birds.

Seeing faces in clouds.

Hearing voices in trees. 

Who wants to sleep alone?

Who wants to kiss one's own hand?

Not I.

Not even sometimes.

Don't argue with me

All the tears in China won't bring him back, 

all the oxlips in the dell 

can shed their blooms but

nothing can be done, 

We have no authority only 

dreams and drives 

pushing up from nothing 

and all begin to wither right away. 

Yes. Wither from the very start--

don't argue with me.

This long death starts with the first exhale.

Reincarnation never happens. 

Earthly things brought him to his knees. 

He was always drowsy after that; 

complained only once. 

It was when we saw the oxlip.

My low key guy of boyish wit 

who never hit a thing except piano keys, 

cried when he saw the color he will leave behind.

I saw a ray of light blaze from 

both his eyes the night he died 

and it was borne away with him

and his reincarnation keeps 

never coming.  

No other way

My giant has faded from my senses,

the sound of his music dims onshore

as my ship slips from its harbor.

The months have made quick work 

of all six feet four of him.

There is less and less.

I see right through him, 

an X-ray, curved ribs and behind them 

the hillside. 

I must not lose him like this. 

I must stay awake and think of him, 

his grin, the way he booms around the room.

I must say his name each day, 

his picture must hang in every room.

I must pull the hairs from his brush.

I must write about him every day. 

There is no other way.

Nothing like that

He doesn't take deep breaths,

does not shout,

nothing like that,

when angry, 

he walks away,

into a tower, 

bolts the door

for hours, days,

sometimes centuries.

I can hear Art Farmer, 

then Paul Desmond

and when I hear Jobim  

I know the door will open.

He will not look at me. 

He will only say, 

 I'm going to the store,

Do you need anything?

And I will answer,

Yes, I do need, 

I need some things.

Of course

Of course, of course 

our story can be told in words.

Of course some facts 

like where and when we tied the knot --

there's always words for that. 

But days of quiet knowing

on a drive to town when 

his finger taps the dash and 

Baker sings ”She’s Too Good For Me”

as the trees fly by (we know those words 

by heart), 

how to talk of that? 

And of the spell of here and now

and when it breaks?

I have no words for that. 

Of course, of course.

If I knew the answer

I hear Dion sing--Abraham, Martin, and John

and a shallow spell of tears flips me  

on my back.

Shallow because my soul is wrung 

out. The chill, the rain, the unmoving 

fog, the absence of life in the house, 

all the empty rooms, especially

this room, the master room, 

the sleeping room with the corner 

that stares me down, the corner

where he died, all this opens 

valves and the cruel truths

creep in to fill

the empty space with more 

emptiness, to split me

open like a honeydew.

He had a strong, true heart 

but no more power 

than a flower.

Write me a letter

The letters I find 

in the drawer. 

Simple words pink as peonies. 

I hold them to my cheek

Thank you for being my wife.

They hush me. 

Your letters. 

Your letters.