Fever Dream

After years of masking against the invisible enemy 

the cough and fever consume me, 

even my voice is gone 

forcing me to bed.  

 

It was the teenager, 

fearless and determined,  

who brought it home 

just like a brutish friend 

at midnight, fully eclipsed 

under cover of purple gypsy music 

or hippy long locks wailing

at the blood moon. 

 

I gnash my mind 

enrobed in weakened pride 

that looks like silent meditation 

while I wait in my sweltering sheets 

for the rattling congestion 

to collide 

with morning tea. 

 

I shuffle,

take fever-breaking tablets, 

nurse warm liquids 
into my raw throat. 

In my broken dreams 

I drive my first car, grey 

on dusty backroads

in Minnesota 

frantically looking for my parents 

and my dead brother. 

 

There is no forgiveness 

for being this kind of human. 
 

 Peepers' Love Song 

It occurred to me at dusk’s dimming 

that peepers in April 

pledge solemnly,  

with each note, 

to love their bodies 

and forget the tadpoles

that will shiver out 

of their amphibian selves 

into the bridge between frozen 

and the tantrum of cattails

slime and sun

to grapple with time, 

if only for a short while. 

And we, who stand near

this stagnant swamp, 

simply long to love 

what is impossible 

to understand 

beyond the sweetest of songs  

in this embrace

of spring. 

 

 

 

 

The Jar

Who were we 

to seal God's love,

so warm and rich with the sun,

into the darkness of that jar?

Glory, we trapped it 

in alabaster, cold

and life

less,

dared to preserve it 

for some purpose

yet to be sanctified.

The treasure, exclusive,

guarded tightly,

abundance wasted

until she arrived 

kneeling

expectant and knowing

her place.

Not silent.

Not invisible.

Not compliant,

but full of courage

to do what she could

to love with her hands

covered and overflowing 

with the perfume of the dead.

More intimate

with this act of preparing

for the end of the body.

Courage to crack open

everything.

 Forgive Me

There are no alarm clocks in heaven.

No cold coffee warmed more than once in the microwave.

My father is always singing some Johnny Cash tune

and dances close with my mother

on the yellow linoleum floor.

In heaven, I don't have to drive an hour to work,

I can ride my bike. 

Better yet, I stay home for a year,

dial in to find the records of someone who needs me

and poor souls can't tell the difference.

On days like today

God is watching me

as I swell with the quiet of my gardens

waiting to thaw and push daffodils toward the sky.

Last time I remember November

I planted 800 golden prayers of hope

into the earth to remember those who didn't make it

and to whisper "Forgive me" to those who did.

The aroma of the dirt from so many small graves,

secretly satisfying as I caressed each body to rest.

Today, after such a long nap

maybe I'm Rip Van Winkle

hibernating next to the maple 

savoring the sap rising

knowing so many of us

will never wake up.

Here on Earth, we all eventually

just stop breathing

while the world goes on without us,

expecting those we love to be with us

singing like chubby cherubs

and holding our hands

and stroking our brow

until the very end.

Astronomy of Poets

Look behind the sun

where light bends

space and time.

Theory is eclipsed

by the shadow of nothing;

the moon an accident

of our solar system

A task of poetry;

poaching metaphors.

To know the nature of humanity

collect flawed data,

mingle with starlight,

build improbable things.

Poet, pacifist

mystical death of impartial magnetism

and two languages

suddenly explode

become observation,

mathematical equations

only to discover

Hades has become ruler

of science spectacles

and the entire known cosmos.