Poem #7: Silent "p"

~for Jason

One pillow beneath two heads
an inch apart in different worlds—
I closed my book and watched her read
The Incredible Invention of Hugo Cabret
and realized, at seven, she reads faster
than I do, as she turned a page before
I finished. I could have said, “Hey-
slow down!” but it was her story, after all.
Are you getting everything? I thought.
As if on cue, she stopped and pointed
to a big word, demanded, “What’s this?”
The teacher in me smiled:
Ah. She needs me!
But with just my pronunciation
of pneumonia, instant recognition
moved her body and eyes back to the page.
Without glancing my way, she said:
“Like Uncle Jason,” who’d been sick
in New Hampshire in December.
A page later, she paused again, asked,
“Can someone die from pneumonia?”
I knew she was thinking someone I love
and not a character in a book. So I answered,
“It depends”—and it was not the first time
I’d given her an answer while thinking:
There’s so much I don’t know.
I could not distract her with tickles or kisses,
so I sat back and watched her progress,
her mouth occasionally forming a smile,
and wondered how many more times
she would encounter pneumonia,
with a silent “p.”

Poem #6: Big Brother on Shelby Avenue

He walks his sister home from school,

even though he is too young to walk himself home.

Sister toddles along behind, as he tugs her forward

by the hand. She is lost in a coat

that might have been his a winter ago.

He concentrates on each step he takes.

Hand in hand, they cross Shelby Avenue.

The crossing guard looks both ways for them.

They pass the Bi-Rite, the bus stop—

where adults who are not their parents

glance their way—and the park,

where other children play.

He pauses to wipe at her nose

with his coat sleeve; no one wipes his,

and then he trudges on.

Poem #5: Play Homeless with Me

My oldest asks my youngest: “Do you want to play homeless?”
and they build a house of pillows and blankets
in the middle of our living room.

Earlier that morning, atop the Shelby Bridge,
we huddled and smiled through chattering teeth—
the four of us, tight like a pact, looking down
at the bone cold river, the boats, the steam,
and then we spotted the makeshift shelter way below
on the bank of the Cumberland.

From that distance, we could make out movement
and we stared until we realized something was waving at us.
"It's a man!" my son shouted, pointing.

Even on the bridge, the burn of privilege warmed our frozen cheeks,
the privilege of being able to withstand the January cold
because we did not have to stay out in it,
the privilege of our coats, hats, and gloves,
the privilege of knowing we were just on a walk
and that back in our minivan, we would thaw
in the blast of heat, and drink water from our thermos,
and our car would deliver us safely
back to our home,

where my children can play
homeless
whenever they want.

Poem #4: After the Fight

She tallies hawks, like omens, perched on treetops.

He drives, eyes on the road’s sudden turns.

Their free hands span the distance between them

and lace together, mountain-like—all knuckles and bone.

Somewhere, a fire smolders as hikers descend

from a campsite. A train dinosaurs through a forgotten town

with mines beneath--arterial and empty. The signs are obvious

as the setting sun and warn the travelers of dangers:

falling rock, sharp curves, steep inclines, until fear

straps them back to each other, with miles yet to go,

until they are only two headlights piercing the darkness.

Poem #3: Love Song

Rose presses her cheek

to the hollowed curve

of Daddy’s guitar

to feel the song.

Poem #2: The Heart of Winter

Frozen puddles like mirrors

reflect the sky’s likeness.

Trees groan and creak

and threaten things beneath.

A girl in a white gown crosses

a frozen pond, stitches

and fractures slither in either

direction at her footfalls.

In her chest, her heart thaws

with each step because

she is alive and it hurts like flame.

Somewhere a hunter aims

and brings a bird from the sky.

Droplets of blood on snow

paint a startling Morse code:

Life. Death. Life. Death. Life.

Poem #1: January 1, 2010

A plastic bag flaps from the branches

of the barren tree. Birdlike, it lifts and flutters

like the sentinel of a new decade, an angel, a dove.

Expectantly, I watch from an upstairs window,

hypnotized by its erratic attempts

at flight. The clouds throw

their shadows down and animatedly rush

fast-forward past on the brown screen

of the ground. The sensible thing

would be to go and greet the morning sun,

to rid the yard of the beer cans, the sparklers,

the garbage that clings to it, that has blown in

over night, to start the New Year with my eyes

open and hands busy. To set the bird free—

but, honestly, it could go either way at this point.