Lament

This full-throated day

amplifies everything I’ve known,

memory swallowed and spoken

like an oath on the occasion

of all truth-telling.



I resolve to gaze directly into the eyes of sorrow,

touch the gravelly places in my chest

with the words that soothe and steady me

on the simple sand near the sea.



Look at the package as you unwrap the gifts.

The flannel shirt

and the scarf, plaid and soft synthetic,

worn next to the warmth

of a tender neck.



This treasure is meant to be gathered

to my face and inhaled.

Small particles of love,

solemn and steadfast as any hand

pledging allegiance,

hover around my heart.



I open my mouth to speak,

expecting vibrato; a lament.

Instead, the sound of needles rattling

at the end of cold branches,

unlikely clicks of rain against the window,

and the death rattle of tall prairie grasses

tumble from my lips

like the last breath from the body.

Getting Ready to Turn 53

They stopped me all week,

asked me how I would celebrate another year.

I breathe into the idea of 53.



I always like my birthday, at the end of February,

not a leap year, and far enough away from Christmas

not to ruin that holiday, close enough to spring

to have something to look forward to as mud season

takes over.



As a child, the winter thaw cancelled skating parties,

even in Minnesota. There was no smooth gliding

over frozen surfaces of water.

Never the end of winter, but warm enough

to survive until the flowers arrived and the early green flowed

into the leaves. Birthday bowling or sleep overs with the girls.

Pink frosting on Angel Food. Candles and the story of my birth

before singing the song.



This year will be the most different I’ve ever been

with my father gone from his body and traveling free

with the crows and the dreams of all the ways

he has shown up for me. This year will be different

without the call from my champion before 8 a.m. to sing the song

and to tell me about soaking the cast off his arm

after driving on bumpy roads through the jungle

to hurry my arrival. The VW with the wicker basket

behind the seat for the baby. The trip to the nursery

looking for the white baby among the sea of brown

only to find me protected by the nurses.



This year will be different

with my heart space left

unprotected and open

to everything.