Preacherman

Me:
confiteor deo omnipotenti sum
gracious as a corn cob
judgmental as jim crowe
thinking with expectations
rationalizing with niches
pigeonholing you into pulpits

Preacherman:
orare pro me
calm as cashew low on the limb
cool as a september seabreeze
hands open warm and extended
welcoming as the new day

Me:
my brother-in-law
non-judgemental jamaican
my fault
my fault
my most grievous fault

Avenge

he hobbles into the board room
moving slow as winter breathes
making jokes from door to wall
as he retrieves his measuring tape
to size up things, like picture frames,
this aged volunteer doing good

but i resent him right now
i visualize my own grandpa
the jokes he could have made
had clothos been kinder
how he would measure up
if lachesis was less treacherous
were he granted twenty more years
instead of falling to atropos’ shears

Synthesis

my mother had always swore
she’d never do anything synthetic
the last time she said it
or anything for that matter
was as her head hovered over
the table where reflected light
created a church window halo
just before leaning forward
escaping the glow to trace the powder thin line
laced with something heavier than nature

Brother

brother
there’s a strange
emptiness in that o
a wide world opening up
like a gaping grave

we searched hard
when we thought
you’d slipped into the pond
or wandered into the woods
but then you were found
curled away, snuggly tucked
into your bed long before bedtime

so i will fashion you
that eight year old boy
safe and sound
and always present
filling the emptiness

Past

she clings to a cabin
from two decades ago
remembering how she
slowly savored her first
taste of middle-class opulence
and newfound independence
free from worrying about
homelessness or just enough
or maybe scraping by

then it was gone

still she searches
finding remnants in a
creative email address
nicknames or knickknacks

Sorrow’s Near Victory

She gathered her grandchildren around
her, like a comforting quilt,
as the train whistle came crying
through the dark November woods.

There ain’t nothing more lonesome
than a train whistle at midnight,
she sighed, several hours after the wake.

Grief stricken sorrow was about
to fill the room with the fullness of a moon

just as the dog sauntered in to retrieve
her bra from the lonesome nightstand.
She smacked with a laugh and chuckle:
Don’t suckle on my brassier,
just as the whistle faded over the hills.
This was sorrow fleeing

Body Parts

i have my grandmother’s nose
like her, i appreciate the smell
of lilacs in late may
and fresh baked things
consecrated by my own hands

i have my grandfather’s toes
like him, i find joy in being
barefoot and romping
over the earth and water-
treading like my grandmother’s god

from my father, i have faded eyes
that are not so much a window
but a portal, chilling and cold
that scrutinize but when laughing
lets the flying crows land

from my mother, i have high cheeks
hiding like hogs from a butcher
when they grow fattest in fall
they lift up my eyes, push out my nose
and make me feel good right down to the toes

Little Sister

last night i dreamed
i offered you chinese food
you declined yet
when i paid you cried
from the work-induced hunger
then the chinese lady
had a good laugh
at your expense
but i was paying,
so revenge was mine
served sweet and sour
for my sister
your belly rounded
with newfound fullness

Beyond the Leaning Structures

explore beyond
the leaning structures
where cows
dangle from trees
and apple pies
roast on tin roofs

sprawled among
the things that
used to grow
high atop
this mountain meadow
buzzards circle above
ants twirl below

a shack rests
wrangled in ropes
and rotten pallets
along a dirt cow road
hiding from yankees
among pines and
daring to hop from
pallet to pallet in
an almost dried pond
where cows
drown in the mire

big bones of creatures
remain under the watchful
guise of flashing red-eyes
obscured by swaying limbs
that ascend into the hollow

fossilized coral
and ancient ferns
abound in calming
cool minnow-filled creeks
running between
hieroglyphic birch trees
where dinosaurs
and hermits await

wait there
in the valley low
out of sight from the
bootlegger’s barn
where the water is deepest

i will return their someday
to explore cousinless
and perhaps brotherless
but not to play
or to learn french
under an old oak
or to dare others
to cross fallen tree bridges
from one hillside to the next

but to lay low
sink into calming
forgetfulness
unknowing
carelessness
to be baptized
in that creek water
among darting fishes
bowing goldenrods
rattling trees
and spinning clouds

Stepdad’ness

never quite sure
easing myself onto the ice
listening for that hollow echo
the broken springboard
sound that takes you down
my voice as thin as a fissure
but as influential as the sun