Considering Personal Advice
There are tics I can’t let go of,
dishes that still ring the table
years after the feast. I used
to tell myself, Move on and Get over it.
Don’t use the past as a hitching post.
But some days the post may be
the only thing I see, your sweatshirt
tied to it like a banner, its sturdiness
in the wind akin to your stance
in the backyard, often
it’s the column holding up
the family portico,
and the it is a singular
for too many scrawling emotions,
too many times in which a muscle’s
detached from bone. I’m still not sure
what I must climb or hurdle over
as if a one-hundred meter race might help me
know what it really means. But moving
will continue and on will sweep
the borders of time and place,
the breezeway between past and present
until sense unhinges from senselessness
and your life becomes the paradoxical tide,
the changing gravitational pull
of roiling and calm, splendor and awe,
rolling in and out to sea.
Questions
Mid-morning is vortex
with ambulances and cars looping the house,
EMT’s preparing to file reports
via their two-way radios
while the children are detained
for the spell and heave of questions:
How many are in your family?
What did you have for dinner last night?
What time did you go to bed?
The officers release the youngest ones
after the fretwork.
Where were you at 7:00 am?
When did you come home?
The oldest goes numb
at the slight suggestion of accusation.
And yet the queries continue,
Why did your parents go out of town?
to weave through the neighborhood,
What if we’d left the following week?
in and out of Saturday morning yard work,
What if we’d stayed at a hotel close by?
off the whiffle ball bat
How does a runny nose lead to death?
to the girl passing by that afternoon,
What do I say to those who ask?
around the oak tree
Am I a bad parent?
and fence lines of home
Who can claim to know how I feel?
then on to the next address
How do I scale this wall of disbelief?
and neighborhood, bathing the currant bushes
How deep does the grief go down?
and grass, circling each subsequent chimney
How would he look now?
for months and years
How many are in your family?
like the great white shark
who must swim even when he sleeps.
Purpose
It happened four days after my birthday. Stories worth retelling are like that—always in line with
a holiday or celebration, like a straight putt for par. I’ve often wondered, “Why wasn’t I taken
the night you were?” We shared the same spaghetti, tossed the Wisconsin dirt in our hair,
avoided pulp from the pitcher of orange juice, slept less than eight feet apart. You left. I stayed.
My spleen was only a few centimeters larger than yours. I suspect you already met your resolve.
I suspect it had something to do with my birthday. Some reason popping out of balloons, part of
the gloss on new ties. You could let go of your purpose. At 40, mine’s still emerging, like a golf
ball in its descent from the evening sky.
There are tics I can’t let go of,
dishes that still ring the table
years after the feast. I used
to tell myself, Move on and Get over it.
Don’t use the past as a hitching post.
But some days the post may be
the only thing I see, your sweatshirt
tied to it like a banner, its sturdiness
in the wind akin to your stance
in the backyard, often
it’s the column holding up
the family portico,
and the it is a singular
for too many scrawling emotions,
too many times in which a muscle’s
detached from bone. I’m still not sure
what I must climb or hurdle over
as if a one-hundred meter race might help me
know what it really means. But moving
will continue and on will sweep
the borders of time and place,
the breezeway between past and present
until sense unhinges from senselessness
and your life becomes the paradoxical tide,
the changing gravitational pull
of roiling and calm, splendor and awe,
rolling in and out to sea.
Questions
Mid-morning is vortex
with ambulances and cars looping the house,
EMT’s preparing to file reports
via their two-way radios
while the children are detained
for the spell and heave of questions:
How many are in your family?
What did you have for dinner last night?
What time did you go to bed?
The officers release the youngest ones
after the fretwork.
Where were you at 7:00 am?
When did you come home?
The oldest goes numb
at the slight suggestion of accusation.
And yet the queries continue,
Why did your parents go out of town?
to weave through the neighborhood,
What if we’d left the following week?
in and out of Saturday morning yard work,
What if we’d stayed at a hotel close by?
off the whiffle ball bat
How does a runny nose lead to death?
to the girl passing by that afternoon,
What do I say to those who ask?
around the oak tree
Am I a bad parent?
and fence lines of home
Who can claim to know how I feel?
then on to the next address
How do I scale this wall of disbelief?
and neighborhood, bathing the currant bushes
How deep does the grief go down?
and grass, circling each subsequent chimney
How would he look now?
for months and years
How many are in your family?
like the great white shark
who must swim even when he sleeps.
Purpose
It happened four days after my birthday. Stories worth retelling are like that—always in line with
a holiday or celebration, like a straight putt for par. I’ve often wondered, “Why wasn’t I taken
the night you were?” We shared the same spaghetti, tossed the Wisconsin dirt in our hair,
avoided pulp from the pitcher of orange juice, slept less than eight feet apart. You left. I stayed.
My spleen was only a few centimeters larger than yours. I suspect you already met your resolve.
I suspect it had something to do with my birthday. Some reason popping out of balloons, part of
the gloss on new ties. You could let go of your purpose. At 40, mine’s still emerging, like a golf
ball in its descent from the evening sky.
