Old Man


In a month’s time, my son will slide 
into this world, slick and screaming.  
Doubt chokes the words in my throat.
The shock of it cuts me in half. I'm an old man;
I’ve only silence, only my death to give.

I walk under the canopy of the oak 
and sycamore trees, all are dying. 
Invasive mercenaries, the beetles 
from places I've never been.

When I was young, I built a temple for an heir,
a wooden platform with a ladder and a rail. 
It rests on a thick oak branch. So far,
it’s only gathered leaves. I watch it
slowly rotting to its silent, silent end.

Bury me here where I belong. When the tree
and temple fall and the bitter roots unearth,
I want to be planted here. Like song, 
the new tree will finally break free of me. 
Wilder, I hope, more tolerant and strong.





Their Way
      –for Liz–

The waves take joy
and double it 
despite your aching 
mood.

You can’t help
teeter-totter 
as you tip
toe in.

With each frothy rush
you gasp and giggle.
Your arms flap,
fingers wiggle
as you sway.

Even if you don’t mean to,
you frolic for a while.

Squinting at the sun,
you involuntarily
smile.

And when you finally try to get away
you gallop wildly against 
the glimmer and spray.

Yes, even if you wanted
that old hurt to stay,
the waves,
they always have their way.





An Inheritance


I'm eleven, 
searching the stars.

An old hound bays out beyond
the black hole of the lake.

We stand a distance apart
amid patches of white asters. 

The street lamp's fluorescence
yellows the lot behind. 

It's four in the morning.
I'd rather be asleep.

But my father offers me this:
once in a lifetime.

There! A smear of light 
in the sapphire sky appears.

The long shadows 
of our pointed fingers

stretch out and meet
at the milky lip of the water.

We throw our heads back
with mouths agape,

tongues ready 
to receive the heavens.





Avalanche


When I heard I lost you
I welcomed the avalanche.

In my office, cradling the phone,
I surrendered to the news.

The ground froze,
tilted, cracked at my feet.

I did not scurry up the hill
to avoid the quick slide underneath.

Paralyzed, I let it pull me down
tumbling to a blackout.

The phone at my ear told me
you'd been swallowed up.

I let the soft weight
of the mountain settle on me.

My body curled in ice.
I scratched out a small pocket of air.

Dropping the phone, I screamed
to nobody, "I can't do this."

Saliva turned to icicles;
snow dripped cold down my back.

Half-dead, I saw the dull, blue light,
heard a voice call out my name.

Yet, I hesitated before pushing
my hand into the open air above.

I hesitated, knowing that if rescued,
I'd be reborn into a world reshaped

without you.