NINES

“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.”

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, Scene II.

The music I used to hear dances
along my nerves. I sit quietly,
smiling faintly. As I dismantle

all evidence of the life I knew
I discover little lightning seeds
that spark across the chasm once named

Memory, and now just called Rubble.
Each day oscillates between what shrinks
and what expands, what I once could do

and what I can, sweet jazz and pounding,
a clock that crumbles into dry ash
or measuring cups overflowing

with uncooked rice and broken nut bars.
My cupboard is full of spice: curry,
fennel, marigold and mint, basil

and blooming. It’s a weapon: praising
what used to be, attacking what is.
Oh, there is so much to see unseen.

Cognitive Losses

Words
line up:
volunteers,
obedient,
eager, orderly,
prepared. Your question
drops, a flashbang
in my mind.
Wind blows
dust

Planet

“What’s your home planet like?” they ask. Unsure
if this is a question, a pick-up-line,
or a hallucination seeking cure,
I pretend I don’t have ears. “Okay, fine,”
answers a growler, “I’ll go first. Beaches.
It’s all beaches.” The next says, “It’s mountains.”
Then they all start talking, from amoebas
to arachnids, naming one of thousands
as if there is only one. A cloud stares
at me. “What?” I ask, “I don’t know. I saw
only the forest. I don’t know if there’s
more. I don’t move much.” It drifts off, a claw
dangling. The next box whispers in 3D,
“I don’t think group therapy is for me.”

Blink

We see ghosts in my family.
The ancestors close by. Parents.
Chosen family of the heart
unencumbered by genetic
chains. The dead who reimagine
themselves with bodies more perfect,
more beautiful than what they had

here, but the language of the new
body is the same as the old.
The shrug, the quirks, the “so, oh, well”
cocktail with a twist, the hands turned
upward. We see ghosts, the women
here. The mother swims white and winged
over morning waters leaking

mist. The aunt bears solemn witness,
driving down a highway in land
where one can look straight through the ghosts
to the horizon, on one side
or the other, and forward. Don’t
look back, of course. The daughter weeps
and walks, walks and weeps. The dogs lick

her aching eyes, and butterflies
sip from her sad skin. At night, moon
light shrinks perception to halos,
an aura, a shimmer, the white
diamonds constructed of flowers
floating in the grainy dark. We
see ghosts. We see ghosts. And the ghosts

see us. We do not hold out hands
to the newly transitioned, do
not guide them back to their prior
place. We light the candles, say long
prayers, praise the blessed memories,
curse the rest, transmute them. We feel
the weight of eyes of the ghosts

resting on us, or rather not
resting. They look back at us, us,
orphans now. The ghosts play the part
of an anti-Orpheus, look
back, looking back, as if that is
all it will take to hold them here.
We see ghosts, some of us, you see?

Disability Budo

Four legs and a lump, a bump, thump.
Rhythm of saying, “You better
see me, this thing is hard metal,”
meditating on the fine art of
stick combat, designed for canes as
weapons. I’m pondering what I’d do
with my round-topped steel stool-stand-cane,
designing kata in my brain.

Vincent At The Theatre

Red light saturates the empty stage, framed
with darkness, as if there is nothing else,

just the stage floating in a sea of naught.
Orange wooden slats of boards, glow like embers

and blur with heat. Brighten the light a bit.
A bit more. Pass along that smiling sun

with its spiked rays shifting gently, as if
air shifts with its own weight, generating

its own light. There. That might do. Still a bit
too golden to call it yellow. Call it

yellow anyway. Lemon? No. Corn or
goldenrod? Maybe. Alright, time to set

the stage. Men in black push out the lime green
of the upright tinpan alley piano

(with tacks in the felt of the hammers’ heads),
position it just so, and leave (exit

stage left, pursued by silence). Next, target
a blue pin spot on the striped keys, and watch

the ivories glow ultramarine, while
black keys turn indigo. Final touches.

On the lid of the piano, a cobalt
blue bottle filled up partway with water

and part with blooms. We never noticed it
before. Was it there when the piano

arrived? Did the light misdirect our eyes
so we didn’t notice whoever placed

the object? Was it lowered by the fly
system, surreptitiously, appearing

to float before whispering down to rest?
Unlikely, but it’s there now, dripping with

violet blossoms and stalks, the kind that bloom
as the earth still remembers ice but longs

for anticipated heat. The darkest
lilacs, almost black. Drooping hellebore,

purple blending to the deep red of fresh
bruises, moist as a thumbprint in thick oils.

Furled petals begin their slow arc outwards,
swimming in the light. Wait. It’s almost time.

Our Lady, Robin

Abundant and widespread.
So familiar. Cities,
towns, lawns, farmland, forests.

Running and hopping with
upright stance. Robin’s
rich caroling is the

earliest song in Spring.
Heard at dawn, beginning
just before fall. Gather,

roaming, running, pausing.
Hear the move. “Robin’s-egg
blue.” Young leave the nest, tend,

defend territories
by singing. Most buildings:
horizontal ledges,

houses, barns, bridges, cup
of grass, twigs, debris, worked
into mud, lined with fine

grasses. Migrate in flocks
by day. With the breakup,
it may be a bird that

wintered only a few
miles away. All seasons
common. All seasons un-

common. Song is rich notes,
rising, falling: cheer-up,
cheerily, cheer-up, cheer.

---

An erasure poem from “The Audubon Field Guide, American Robin, Turdus migratorius” https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/american-robin

Creation of Meatloaf

Playing twenty questions with the kids always starts the same and then changes, like confession or saying grace, but instead of “Bless me, Father” or “Bless us, O Lord,” it’s the question, “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Meatloaf is like that. Ask me how to make a meatloaf. Go ahead, ask me! I could reply, “Animal, vegetable, mineral.” Really! Think about it. Infinite variations on a theme, but they all start with ground meat, some sort of grain or starchy vegetable, and salt. Meat, starch, salt. From region to region, family to family, the traditions change, but always as absolute as prayer. “It isn’t meatloaf without ketchup,” “without spaghetti sauce,” “without salsa,” “without chili,” without whatever savory spice makes that heart say Home. Meatloaf comes from the poor, but not so poor there is no meat, just not much and not the best. The meat is whatever the deity has provided, what is easy to use and easy to find, ground fine to use bits that aren’t most wanted, and stretched out to make it fill many mouths. Beef, pork, sausage, turkey, chicken, lamb, in some places fish or eggs, or even beans (the vegetable meat). Bean loaf? Yes, bean loaf. Every evening, somewhere, someone is making meatloaf of one sort or another, as if it is a fundamental human act. Just change the names and shapes. Meatloaf, bean loaf, tuna loaf, spaghetti loaf; meatloaf wrapped instead of square — pasties, kibbeh, kubbeh, dolmas; who knows? Maybe even sushi is meatloaf. Meat, starch, salt. Cook kibbeh in a pie, in a loaf, in a leaf, in a crust, in cabbage. What is a quiche but a flat round cheese & egg loaf? Where are the boundaries of the transcendental quintessential Meatloaf? Does meatloaf even need boundaries? Begin with bread, rice, potatoes, noodles, tortillas, bulgar, burghul, couscous, quinoa, lentils, whatever is to hand. Layer beans and tabbouleh and brine. Meat, starch, salt. Whatever is spare, and there. Be humble. Let the food be humble. Bury your hands in the mix. Meat, starch, salt. Touch it. Play with it. Cook it, share it. Let the meatloaf be our meal. Let the making of meatloaf be our prayer.

Creation of Storms

Blowing hot and cold,
isn’t that the phrase?
That’s how it begins, you know.

It begins with wind’s laughter
lightly drawing a line dance
upon the water. Water

slips sideways to draw
another line, another …
and then the wind is blowing

all the lines to some far shore
that doesn’t yet exist, but
looms gray on the horizon.

There is a faint ache, an edge;
the hint of salt in the mouth,
on the tongue, abrupt & sore;

a vague discomfort, restless.
The wind whines, whimpers, dies down.
The sudden cold silence is

charged with incipient loss,
an electric hurt.
Hot/cold, hot/cold – what is it?

What do you want?
Trees and waves work out
with unusual vigor.

Right/left, right/left, exercise,
work it, work it out.
There is a rhythm to it —

the dark deep drumming
of thunder, the ache.
Hot bubbles’ warning startles.

The air is so turbulent
it feels as if the wind is
catching the words from

right out of your mouth
and sucks them right up,
claims them for its own.

The sky has turned a sickly
yellow green, still dry.
The unbearable waiting.

It begins with the water
flinging her salty sweat right
into the face of the wind.

Wind tastes salt and howls.
Waves roar back and weep.
That is just the beginning.

It builds from there. Into what?
The howling of hurricanes,
the wounded broken silence

in the black eye of the storm,
finally — cataclysmic
and devasting,

the orgasms of planets.

Creation of Rhythm

Before rhythm was in the drum, it was in the skin;
before rhythm was in the drum, it was in the tree.

Before rhythm was in the tree, it was in the leaves;
before rhythm was in the tree, it was in the hands.

Before rhythm was in the hands, it was in the feet
raising staggered clouds of dust from the hard-packed earth.

Before rhythm was in the feet, it was in the voice
panting, crying, howling, or murmuring far away.

Before rhythm was in the voice, it was in the breath,
just breathing, breathing again and again, nothing more.

Before rhythm was in the breath, it was in the eyes
blinking, shivering with the pulse, it was in the heart.

Before rhythm was in the heart, it was in the body;
before rhythm was in the body, it was in the day —

the day and the night, the sun and the moon, the seasons
of mating and birthing, sleeping and waking, and death.

Before rhythm was in our deaths, it was in being,
it was in being, it was in being, it was, is.

Rhythm is in the being, rhythm is in the air;
rhythm is in the smallest element of atoms,

rhythm is in the spaces between all the atoms,
between all the stars or galaxies or clusters.

What are we when we are moved by rhythms we hear not?
What are we when we are moved by rhythms, and aware?

Rhythm was not created. Creation was rhythm —
the pulse that opened all still echoes, echoes, echoes.

Rhythm is not created. Creation is rhythm —
begin & bend, pulse & pause & point, guide & full stop.

Rhythm was not created. Creation was rhythm.
Rhythm is not created. Creation is rhythm.