​I've worked as a carpenter, plumber, and electrician for most of my life. I grew up in Maryland, married my high school sweetheart, moved to the west coast and built a home in the Santa Cruz Mountains near the Pacific. Still there, still together, raising grandchildren. If you need help installing your hot tub, give me a call. joecottonwood.com.​

Author's Note: For years I took care of my older brother. Me, a hippie carpenter with woo-woo tendencies as caretaker for a cranky beatnik atheist. Could be a TV sitcom – except it wasn’t funny. We would argue about spirituality. He kept challenging me: “What is spirit? What do you mean?”  As the sunset neared on his life, I could sense his spirit growing larger. He denied it to the end and I love him for that. 


I am Building a Brace


I am building a brace for the front porch 
of my brother who is on the other side 
of that door listening with headphones 
to a recording of Chinese poetry 
(in Mandarin, which he understands) 
while he is dying, slowly, 
brain cell by brilliant brain cell 
in that rocking chair 
whose joints are creaking,
coming undone.

He no longer remembers his phone number
or how to count change at the grocery store.
He is in denial of any problem
as he grows younger, ever younger 
shedding years like snake skins
while the crack in the porch grows wider, ever wider 
so out here in the rain
I set four-by-fours upright as posts, 
then I jerk four-by-eights as beams 
lifting on my shoulder, held by my hands
pushing with my legs, transferred through my spine 
anchored by my feet as the useless joists of the deck
drop termite shit onto my eyebrows
like taunts of children:
nya nya you can’t fix this.
But I can brace it for a while. 

Long enough, at least
for my brother to forget ten languages.
I will repair that rocking chair.
I will buy diapers, rubber sheets,
install grab bars in the shower.
I won’t let his porch collapse.
I simply won't.
First published as a broadside by Spirit First



On Call


I am in bed, midnight, when the doctor calls. 
She says my brother is in the emergency room
with high blood sugar, dehydration, another stroke. 
She wants guidelines.

Dementia. 
He cannot feed himself or even smile.
Yet he lights up whenever I arrive --
you can sense it in his eyes.

As a child I chased after him on a tricycle.
He taught me baseball, rebellion, girls. 
Taught me to drive our old Studebaker. 
Sent me letters from California until at last 
I followed, too. Now he leads
on this new path.

"No heroic measures,” I say. “Do not resuscitate."
“Okay,” the doctor says, "what about a feeding tube?"

When the heart stops, it is as if the body 
has decided to die. But if the body cannot swallow? 
Or think? He slowly starves. Who decided that?

To the black bedroom a soft light comes,
headlights passing. Rain is dripping.
Dogs are sleeping on the floor,
one with a gentle snore.
My wife, head propped on hand, 
lies on her side, watching. 
In this quiet night 
with the doctor’s breath in my ear 
I am an incompetent god,
but the only one on call.





Your Spirit Is a Shadow


Your spirit is a shadow
lingering
made of light

Your spirit is a shadow
growing longer 
into night

Your spirit is a shadow
none can capture
all can see

Your spirit is a shadow
set free

First published in River Poets Journal