Absolution

Daddy, what is there after
the whores, the long-term mistress,
smoke-filled nights of gambling,
rivers of bourbon and water,
boundless binges of spending,
and miles of drunken driving?
Even with every Saturday afternoon movies,
twenty five kinds of solitaire,
following the war each day
with the radio and maps,
and the occasional nickel
flicked to me from your thumb
because of good grades,
the eclipse of night whispers
swirled like swallows into the chimneys
of every home in town
shrouding my days with shame,
until finally I see
things I did not notice then--
doors ever closed to company,
every knick-knack placed exactly,
a dust-free, polished life
more sterile than a desert,
her pursed lips vised shut
like the cedar chest in the bedroom
where things of value were sealed
as if in a sarcophagus
such as love, words, laughter,
and you could not find the key
or pry that wooden box open
no matter how hard you tried.
Finally I unbolted the hinges
and the truth rested like the picture
in Portia’s leaden box,
and the clamp unclenches my heart,
the embers of anger cool to ashes
that catch on the wind
drifting upward like smoke.
Then there is nothing.

January Storm

Specks swirl through sifted
sunlight. Soon large flakes fill the air,
touch like fingertips
layer shapes to secrets where
all signs of yesterday disappear.
Before and after, here and there
smooth to one vast place. Footsteps,
buckets, flower pots heap. Bare
branches whirl in wind that tells
of light, dancing, the lost sounds
of flutes, laughter, bells.
An unexpectedly found
wonder appears as three doe step
slowly on to the glistening mounds
of rounded forms. Heads lift, noses sweep
for scent, sleek bodies pause, then move down
the hill into the woods carrying the
quiet reassurance that I, too, have found
in the infallible sanction of white.

One More Night

The clock clicks to midnight.
The world is
dozens of racket balls
bouncing about,
flying off the walls--
bombs dropping like eggs
from warrior birds,
men pounding their fists,
hammering the table as if
it were clay and they
could shape the map,
tidal waves surging down the Alps
swallowing Austrian villages
with snow that should be here
by now, but instead
soared over the sea.
I feel the hushed touch
of words boomerang
around the cream-colored walls
trying to find a mouth,
a hand to shape them into
something better,
something to soften
the thuds and thumps of racket balls.
The moon balloons its silver.
The wind clatters its chill.
Nouns, verbs, adjectives tap and skip
like the dots of strobe lights.
Because of them
the moon is not enough.

Eric
(A Prose Poem)

I am a beached boat in room F609 until Eric of the straight, long legs walks briskly into the room. Sinewy and thin, his limbs hang loose as a marionette. He rolls the scale into the room like a mover’s dolly. His, “Good morning, mam,’ gotta’ weigh you,” sends shudders through my heavy soul. I tell him I am too fat to move, as I slowly swing my legs around to the side of the bed, letting them dangle like anchor chains. “Nah, mam,’” Eric chirps as his slender brown hands help me off the bed onto the scale. I look at the red numbers. Upside down they blare my pounds. “Why, mam,’ you’re a light bug, you really are.” Eric smiles, his grin as big as a crescent moon, his voice soft as fur. Somehow I feel lighter, though the doctor’s orders thunder through my head. Eric’s words are feathers clinging to me like those of a peafowl with the plumage of a peacock. I stretch out on the bending bed, lift my chin as in a strut.