death

Would Have Been

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Your 36th
sober birthday if
you had lived. I remember

when you told me
you put down
the bottle. I didn’t understand—

my first tipsy
only weeks before. But
that prayer

I now choke on
between “grant me”
and “the serenity”

since you died. That prayer
I thought you wrote
with your second wife. That prayer

I knew had magic
in it—hanging over
the kitchen sink

ready to help
whoever might read it
come clean. That prayer

I pin
to my heart each night
before I sleep. That prayer

enshrines every gift
you, my father,
ever gave away.

Four Months

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

The dullness
of this count does not mirror

the flash
of metal that cuts longing

into irregular slices
of grief.

No steady hand
can regulate how

it gets measured, how
another day will fold

open with his absence
now ink

that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.

One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer

to our number 8—
another day

in the last month
of a depleted year—

I realize even tipped
on its side,

its resemblance
to infinity

is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.

Three Months

/ Arambler / 2 Comments

The labor of breathing
without gasping
through these hollowed-out
days. The fear

of never being able
to recite the Serenity Prayer
again because of the way
the throat closes shut

before “grant me”
can escape. Just one more

bear hug, one more laugh
over lost cookies, one more
email exchange, just one
more hand squeezing, one

more simultaneous gazing
at the same full moon
while standing thousands of miles
apart, one more walk

side by side
would not be enough.
I surrender to this
grief and put my trust

in the wind still blowing
from those resilient wings.
Death’s got nothing
on them.

Putting Together with Light

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

When I can’t recognize
the taste of my own
name on the tip

of this inherited tongue.
When water terrifies
but is the only way.

When light’s brilliance
before death
takes me by the hand.

When I’ve got no place
else to go,

the rhythm of you
remains—you
big ole’ muddy river.

Go Back to Rockville

/ Arambler / 1 Comment

As soon as

we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began

as soon as

we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone

as soon as

perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read

as soon as

we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you

as soon as

your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment

as soon as

you are
released, I will
begin again.

27 August 2012

/ Arambler / 4 Comments

For My Father

The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:

I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way

you always did
when you were alive.

Mendacity

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

She could sweat it
out, but it wouldn’t change
the colors, wouldn’t bring
any of them

back. Laughter
doesn’t come easily
for her. She sees
the humor

and the irony
in it all—giggles
on the inside. Does she dare
to read

the Sunday
New York Times
someone left
behind on the table

next to her. Does she dare,
does she dare, does she
dare. One more time

and it could become
a real question
with correct punctuation.

Only When You Accused Me of Starving Myself

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Let’s agree to disagree
about this anger
I don’t feel. Only
those numbers in your handwriting
erased from a chalkboard
30 years ago know
how we were supposed to add up

or not. A psychology
of emotions cannot qualify

the spirit in the slate,
a song over the dugout,
stanzas hidden in the threshold
we passed through
so many times
without thinking to pause
long enough to honor the reveal.

Small Stone

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Some hot October
afternoon she leaves
you as abruptly as she rediscovered

your appeal. Death
doesn’t placate those of us
in the heat or near miss

lovers under any shape
moon.