they had names
Grandpa Jim
Winner, "Best Overall Piece," the Bridge: Student Journal for Fine Arts, Vol. 14
His laughter once shattered
like a Budweiser bottle. His teeth
the brown pieces. Now, his beard
ajar & machine breathing,
he's been poured. Cold tile
& divider curtain replace
his kitchen; its linoleum, wood
paneling & warm ESPN glow.
Sandwich done him in. Shook
& sweated more than sobriety
facing that last bite. Beneath
florescent hum I hear him chuckle
at how dumb that sounds. Light shines
through blinds & makes him less pale.
Dust floats in the rays. I once thimbled
his finger, was once gloved by his hand.
His palm tucks inside mine, I stroke
IV tubes. Squeeze back.
Poem Found While Working Overtime with Amilcar [In Progress]
Look at you reading that merda,
all its good for is wiping
o suor fora minhas bolas!
Can a poem tell you how good this peach tastes?
How sweeter the juice was pouring
down our queixos as me & minha Irmã ran
from our neighbor, pillowcases filled with his peaches.
Idiota couldn't outrun us children!
He liked his horses, se é que me entendes!
Can a poem tell you how beautiful minha Mãe was?
Her bare feet dancing the Virá
on the greenest grass you'd ever see.
Her hair, preto veludo above us. I held her hand
& tried moving like her, como o vento.
I wrote a poem once. To father.
Said if he ever touched minha Mãe again
Eu socá-lo em seu pau pequeno!
He read it & threw his garrafa de vinho
at my face. This scar is the only presente
he ever gave me. He left us shortly after.
I've outlived him trinta anos.
Agora eu segurar a mão da minha neta
e ensiná-la a Virá.
That's enough poetry for me!
Five Poems for Miguel
My good friend & Virginia-based artist Miguel Carter-Fisher challenged me to post five pieces for five days. Naturally, I'm late. So here's all five, all of which will appear in an up-coming collection.
Six Month Coin
It's true. Happiness
would come to me through
a syringe, sprinkler
of light into my arm,
savoring each drop
like melted black honey
by a blue Bic flame.
With it—I was a boy again
laying on my lawn neck & arms
scratchy from the wet grass beneath it
what troubles I had
would be as far as
the summer sun
Sure,
light turned to fire;
A-bomb of mourning
spilled into my eyes
—burnt vinegar smell,
arms pocked with rust
& my troubles waiting
for that first blue flame
of memory. Food?
Black coffee will do,
thanks. This morning I had
a Moonpie—haven't
had one in six months.
Sinking my teeth through
the soft chocolate coatin' the crisp flaky
wafer squeezing the cream filling out
with my fingers cardboard &
wrappers lay around me like confetti
on the linoleum floor
That's when I was a…
Silly to mention
it, never mind. Those
days are long behind
me. What time is it?
I should go, feel sick.
Might go lay down
in the grass
Luggage
to Jenny Masterson
Rustling through a pile of organic Fruit Roll-ups
& outlet adapters, you debate
how many make up brushes to cram
into the suitcase,
the scale needle crawling closer
to 50lbs.
In a sonic boom of memory you thrust across the room,
grabbing our New Years photo strip.
This is essential, you say,
placing it atop early birthday cards
before mushing your apple cheeks
into my beard.
As you are bound for rolling
foothills, fresh olive oil & wine,
I lay in moonlight
listening to the second hand
tick, each a mile
further
you go,
& my mind packs its own essentials:
tucks your black coconut perfume
under my nose,
wraps your cold feet a
round my legs,
between my ear and pillow
your voice saying, This is essential.
Tardigrade Black
You eyeless bear
You crawl between the grooves of my fingertip
as easily
against the sun's boiling
winds
Your wrought iron skin
proves flannel
where my skin would crack
as ice
Yet for you our world
is a doll's eye, black
like my pupils
the black chapped cracks
in my mother's hands
my father's once black hair turned gray
the black around grandpa's eyes
the last time
Do you also tire, Tardigrade
—has time ever crawled through your fingertips
as easily?
Mother, Ship Wreck
over the sink
Hope
(from Getting Up S'Only Easy for the Sunrise)
for Fall River, Massachusetts
Her eyes are black without mascara, sunk in like Mason jar lids;
she smokes more than the cooling towers
across the cove.
Her name is not Lizzie Borden but they are both innocent
yet treated as guilty.
That part of the story is not unique.
She had a dream in her once,
wanted to be a mortician,
wanted to make the dead feel beautiful one last time,
she tells me,
But she couldn’t justify the loans,
worked hard to save
only to discover the college adviser told her the wrong information.
Now she works while caring for her extended family;
caring for her nephew, giving him the love he needs
so he’ll never feel ashamed.
He likes to wear dresses,
likes to take dance lessons,
dances with people twice his age,
and dances well.
He’s happy, she tells me,
and beautiful.
Hope in heaven
we pray.
A high school shop teacher hung himself in his home.
Rumor has it his wife filed for a divorce,
left a note for her taped to his chest.
That part of the story is not unique.
He use to yell Tarzan calls that rang throughout the shop,
sang the Beach Boys throughout the day in such a manner
you could say he wasn’t singing at all.
He would say,
I’m going to teach you little about machine shop and a lot about life
—would teach work ethic in such a manner
it made you listen to yourself
so others would as well.
Hope in heaven
we pray.
A nobody overdosed on heroin,
found lying on his bed, face up, blue;
in the adjacent room his elderly mother slept.
That part of the story is not unique.
He gave me a Christmas card
a few years back when no other family member did.
Inside was twenty dollars and the message,
A reason to care about the holidays. Love, Uncle Mike.
I thanked him then
and still do.
Hope in heaven.
No—not in heaven
hope right here, hope right now.
Hope
that is more
than a lottery ticket,
more than a cigarette drag.
Hope
that isn’t persuaded
by what can you do with that?
or get your head out your ass.
Hope
that prevents
a person
from being anything other than
happy and beautiful.
Hope, we will.
Amen.