the drowning

we keep pulling him up
from the bottom of the Red River
in stop-action or slow-motion
and replay the splash
blooming around his hips

we correct his dive
restore the promise
of his form, each movement
clear in the instant of falling

the moment reversed
we reel him up
to where he's still
sitting on the bank

mother covers her
bare scalp with hair
torn by its roots

screams sucked back
into her mouth become
soft syllables again

her shredded clothes
re-woven the table set
for his return

2

it's that time of year
again he's drowning
and the Red River
opens wide to take him in

mother rooted to the bank
her voice floating over water
we're waiting supper for you

bread and milk lie
heavy on the table
where sisters stand
strange to one another

they turn their backs
and climb the stairs
to narrow rooms

it's that time of year
nudging memories of
his face streaked with summer

---

stanza break

small talk at evening meals
walks along the river
with its radiant shine

in this house where
no one survives love
darkness opens
like a white door

---

FAMILY PORTRAIT

1

At six o'clock ma always
listened to the news and groaned,
her body a vast burial ground
for all the victims of wars,
revolutions, pogroms-- each groan
another corpse. She stood
ironing. Every stroke a preparation
for the burial, a straightening
of limbs, a smoothing of features ,
a final act of love

2

That winter pa worked at the sawmill
sleeping in unheated boxcars
with his union card
warming his pocket.
Nights, he kept others awake
grinding his teeth.

Running a log through the power saw,
he sliced off a finger,
then, held his hand
high above his head
like a dripping torch.

He still grinds his teeth
in his sleep and spends
his time adding numbers,
quoting costs,
measuring distances
with his missing finger.

3

One face anchored in its smile,
the other curtained in itself,
my picture parents, I can
barely see you now as you
bleach into this document.

You were the first to understand
distance, leaving a pause between
two pulse beats, a slight murmur
in the blood. This photograph of you
is like a clock bending time,

an instant transformed
and whatever whitened inside you
like a bone or a guardian angel
is etched in the palm of my hand.

---

TO MY SON WHO HATES THIS POEM BECAUSE I'M OVER FIFTY

Hey you!
walking about like a plucked chicken
with your private parts open to heaven,
have you no shame?
The world's on its last pair of legs.
Nothing but crutches, trusses,
bandages, stretchers and slings,
but you jog along down a country road
singing and waving your banner of love
past hawthorne hedges in blossom time

---

ADVICE TO A SON
for Glenn

Wake early
Run non-stop
toward a green patch where
love grows

ripe
turnip-hearted
bunched leaves folding
into the light

In this country of leaves
deep in summer
rest in a world of high grass
watching the white hours
wheeling past
full of wonder

Let the wind
carry your shadow
the rain
fall like applause
as you run
warm in the cloud of your breath

The field's your true address
Shows you a life
plain as water
ripe as morning

Teaches you
jut of shoulders
thrust of hips
Builds a body

streamlined
stripped down
ready to know love
and call it by its name

---

Birthday Present
(for Tom)

Your birthdays are stacked
like old catalogs
on back verandas,
filled with ads for telescopes,
guitars, skis, skates,
the full throttle of rock and roll.

You drift from one
mirror to the next
growing taller, thinner,
your days all sky and air,
fresh as grass,
full of sundust and silence.

Wing-shadows on your shoulders
you make your travel plans
and all the little leaves
like green hands waving
from the willow near the pond
applaud you.

I've wrapped you like a gift
in plain brown paper,
sealed, stamped,
no return address,
marked for special delivery
into your own two hands.

---

ROYALTY

The smell of garbage
in my uncle's basement flat
hung like incense.

Thermometers dropped to forty
below but windows stayed
wide open.

All night, the family lay buried
under triple comforters
but mornings when they tunneled to the surface,
fragments of that smell still hovered.

In summer, we lined curbs to watch him
wheeling past, waving gloved hands,
high on the garbage truck,
King of the Back Lanes.
Winter leveled him with other men.

Every day, we listened for his special
signal, work boots dropping,
the creak of a nail
as he hung overalls in the bathroom.

We'd sit around the table
having milk and cake
discussing the chemistry and meaning
of that odor.

Everyone took turns wrapping
garbage in old newspaper,
running to the outside cans,
holding their breath until they
slammed the lids down.

Now, we wrap it in plastic,
store it in sanitized containers
like our memories of him
except once in a while
the smell seeps through.

© 1996, The Blue Penny Quarterly. All rights reserved.