Quiet Grief: An Oxymoron

On Visiting my Brother

The windows do not intrude-- the living room's glass
on three sides lets Spring exhibit turgid green tickled
by bees and snails. He tells me the pond is all a stirring.
The goldfish he bought felt frisky in warmer water,

spawned just fine. He giggles, coughs, bends over--
a hand tries to grasp the frogs croaking
underneath his bony chest, the other finger-combs
the head's skin out of habit.

This doesn't intrude either. His eyes sparkle
teasing green: This summer I'll brand the mosquitoes
the goldfish spare. Neighbors will have to show me
the biters come from my pond. Laughter grates,

the day grows violet on the glass. Outside,
the gardener, geared up for mowing, races the engine.

The Milky Way ( from a Cherokee myth)

I look at you,
Cherokee in white shirt,
bold head shaded by still-born hair,
green eyes reflecting prairies you'll ride,
and think the giant dog has swooped
from the sky again, swallowed mouthfuls or cornmeal
you stored for Winter.
The dog is raiding your chest,
he'll soon flee back to blue fields dripping
grains of you from his mouth .

I feel bad as I write, smile, watch
each grain of you fall
from the dog’s loose jaws
and become a star on the Milky Way.

The Persistence Of Memory

When doctors told him
he had cancer, he stuck the news on the hands
of the living room clock, let it bend
the iron frame, glued a smile to his face.

He hasn't changed his habits -
goes to work, fixes his daughter’s pipes,
talks to his wife of when he got really drunk
and they danced under star-kites.

He tires easily. At nights he dreams
he’s sitting in the blue armchair
watching the family album -
grandchildren have grown into handsome

men, they hold their diplomas, wave
to him from the stage--
click, click of cameras on Marks’ firm chin,
on Andrew’s rebel, sandy forelock.

Every time he wakes, one photo comes
off the page, falls onto the ground - he wonders
who the old man might be.

My Father

has begun to die
inside my mother. He is leaving
her rooms-- I no longer hear voices
and words burst at night.

A decade after his death, he has tired
of dragging himself to her in a gown
of cannulae. My mother is sure,
she says he is somewhere getting dressed

in his linen suit. Combing his blond
moustache, he searches
each shell, sweetpea, oak, bluejay --
searches for her on the way

to the flattened Earth's top
to spin among. To spin

No Gentle Art
( After Reading Bishop and Thomas)

It isn't hard to show how loss is mastered --
Take in the art to pierce through fading light,
Reject all rage and rave reacting faster.

I've practiced loss; I boxed it in tight clusters:
A bib, a shut off phone, my name. No blight
Indeed; I've learned how simply loss is mastered.

Shirts are getting loose? No true disaster.
My father's back bends, his skin's egg-shell white,
But he can scorn the black that beckons faster:

Life's a strip of earth, a great recaster
It slopes, lets waves erode in tidal rite
To calm bays. See how simply loss is mastered?

A man whose trunk is tainted ( yes, di-sas-ter)--
He gives such gentle teaching to incite
Me to this art. I breathe deep, swallow, faster.

I'll learn to accept life's breaching and blasters,
Will make your smile, your smile, and strength break nights,
But not now, not while losing: I can't master
Rage. Father, please, outrage with me now, faster.

Fading Out

A house with an orchard, sheets on the washline,
a porch and her rocking chair.

Mom on the bed blinks
at morning, a fluid star glides over the window pane.

In the cabinet, a wood crucifix, a mouse trap,
hangers, outlaw saints, a stringless violin.

On the bed, Mother fades like foam sucked by sand.

A porch without the rocking chair.

The Gull's Egg

The old woman was peeling fish with pebbles,
then lay them on straightened weeds:

I'll boil this fish in sea water, will add these weeds.
It doesn't matter really; I want to be outside
when Spring comes.

She pointed at the cottage on the rocky edge,
said it was all ready-- The chalk cat on top
of the chest of drawers; inside the first drawer,
the broken alarm clock wrapped in a bandana.
Next to it, a gull's egg:

It's bigger than a hen's. A white shout.
I shut the drawer; can't shut my eyes at night,
come here, outside, where the sea scales
darkness and leaves me in moon bones.
Spring is a good season to die, whiter
than the gull's egg.

Waiting for the Prodigal Son

Within the porch, unlit since our kid
blinded its dusty bulb, a board creaks,

a bird stirs the acrid scent around the lemon tree,
then stillness widens darkness.

A key falls, sharply swallowed by its metal
sound. Perhaps there was no bird, no tree,

no key. Perhaps there is no one here
where our steps make no noise.

The Drawer

The drawer won't close.
Don't ask her to push it completely, she can't.
There are his hands there, wrapped in eviscerator 's torn gloves;
quiet, bruised knuckles; veins wriggling
like birds trapped in a net.
One hand's turned up, faded lines,
hooked fingers, the palm shaded by black, half-mooned
nails. His hands are blind,

a metaphor she won't touch neither will others
busy at sewing up rips in his gloves, pluck
fishbones' splinters, busy at licking
dripping noses, lemonade tears.

She pulled her hands away from his, let them decongest
from blue clots, tingle then stretch to the seashore,
alive, she can't

close that closet, her head held by his cold grip.

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s do not intrude-- the living room's glass
on three sides lets Spring exhibit turgid green tickled
by bees and snails. He tells me the pond is all a stirring.
The goldfish he bought felt frisky in warmer water,

spawned just fine. He giggles, coughs, b