--IS IT TRUE THAT WE’RE FOOLS TO NEVER HAVE EXPECTED ANYTHING ELSE?

 

 

Listening Device

 

She tells me I don’t know, I don’t know,

I never knew.

She claims I only see spots and scotomas,

that I miss the truth

hiding in the fringes,

out of breath but beautiful.

 

Another time she says she is a cut-out,

not flat,  

not like that,

but living pages and improper pictures.

“Here,” she says,

running my hand across her spine,

“maybe you can read me a story.”

The nurse pokes her head in, mouths, Everything okay?

the same way she does every day.

When she’s gone,

I turn back to the woman on the bed

whose eyes are a blind man’s milk-blue.

I hit Record on the device,

say, “Tell me again how you met Dad,”

and she begins to laugh.

 

 

 

Repeats

 

My son says he sees Tutsis, Hutus

and machetes in his sleep.

He says there’s an imposter looming outside his window.

When I tell him the Tutsis are safe now,

he asks how I can be sure.

I pull back the sheer curtain

to take study of the twilight and tell my boy,

“No, it’s the same moon.  We only get this one.”

 

In school he learned that history repeats.

Now he gives examples—Hitler, Pol Pot, Idi Amin.

I tousle his hair, kiss his sweaty forehead and hum songs until he nods off.

Outside the moon looms like a glowing onion,

daring me not to think of evil men in other countries

too busy for sleep themselves,

scheming to make my son correct.

 

 

 

Genie

 

While you sleep I read your arms,

flames and barbed ink

stitched into your skin as if you are

a totem pole

bibliography

grocery list

or story without nouns.

 

Like the tenant in 14 B

who made the news because he spoke Farsi

and learned to fly in Florida,

people are on alert around you.

Yesterday the ballroom went still upon your approach,

the music stopped and a sparrow dropped dead from the sky.

But I am still waiting on you,

unafraid,

a little bit desperate and dangerous,

using both hands and all three wishes,

madly in love.

 

 

 

Sunglasses

 

Her black eye is a crushed grape behind the glasses,

overripe colors

that are not sweet fruit

bleed free of the frame if she tilts her head

which she is careful not to do.

She speaks about Jerry.

He is tall for his age,

smart for his age.

He’s starting to look a lot like me.

The black sea

inside the cup doesn’t concern me

yet my daughter pauses to ask, “Need some sugar?”

forgetting—or maybe not—that her sunglasses are

dark but not reflective.

 

“Sure,” I say.  “Yes, I’ll have some.”

 

 

Jaguar

 

I am always on the wing,

grounded yet airborne,

unable to see

on either side,

neither north or south as it may be,

thousands and thousands of feet up.

Yet I hold a picture of you like

a colorful cameo come-to-life.

It sits on the closet shelf

closest in my memory--

of you dipping your head demurely,

shy and so very lovely,

a copse of hair slinging across your right cheek--

always that one--

as your now eager eyes lift to mine,

you a famished Jaguar.

 

I can go nowhere.

I can do nothing.

I can only make small leaps

take shallow breaths

run rings from here to there

without that image of you fulfilling its promise.

It is but one piece of you

yet it gives me reason and purpose,

a peaceful explanation of why

living makes sense.

 

 

 

Homeschooled

 

There were scars on those kids

wicked homeschooled homemade jewelry

the skin serrated

caned from stained leather belts or buckles

so that there was no way to hide

to hide from other kids

when it came time to take showers

after PE

after PE everyone knew

and --frightened by this discovery-- they

did what teens have done for centuries

they made a game out of the horror,

said those kids were Jews,

filthy Jews

same ones that killed Jesus,

these Jews just got the belt instead of ovens,

see how lucky they are

but stay away from them

they're infected.

 

 

 

Nostalgia

 

Here is the tree

that resembles the tree

my forefather

hung from

while not playing games

trading seconds for years

suffocating strangling always struggling

the rope a good thick one

sturdy coarse and dry.

Why all these years later

I can't reconcile my past

is something my wife asks

a few times each year.

And yes, only yesterday

she said, "You're too nostalgic."

She said, "And it's getting on my nerves."