Mathew's Casket


Before they lower me into that rented oak box,
Mathew’s casket, make sure you kiss my neck 
the way you used to every morning, 
every night before we rested our eyelids.

Take my palms, place them on your waist
one last time, as when I moved up behind you
in the kitchen, defenseless, soap to elbows. 

Take my right hand, slide it down your spine,
the soft slope of your lower back I traced
while you made a bed of my burning chest.  

Remove my rings, place them on your fingers,
circle any loneliness. Four rings complete the set.

From Mathew’s casket, as they lower me down,
take what you can carry, what memory allows.





Maybe if I Were More Like Myself

        
I’d be a superhero in a cape,
in time to catch you before you fall,
bounding over the edge of buildings,
protecting passing trolleys and busses.

I’d pendulum outside office windows,
peer in at faces of people I’ve despised
or been despised by since I was a child. 
A child more like himself than me now,

a pudgy boy with so many tall stories. 
I would settle in and spin you a web
of youth and accomplishment, if I were
more myself now as before, leap

subway turnstiles in a single bound,
steal a raft from the shore of our island,
marathon across town to prevent explosions.
I would be king of the garage-jumping gang. 

If I were more like myself,
I’d play out flying dreams of devotion,
slip off my day skin and put on yours,
a sweet disguise for a hero, maybe.   




​
Ancient History
Based on a line by Robley Wilson

I wish in the ruins of your heart
you would let me be columns
you lean on, trusting, just
because you choose. I imagine
early days when they crumbled,
teams of men working to re-build you,
without scaffolds or knowledge.