Elegy For An Uncle

Your second death, this.  The first you cheated—
buried alive, then resurrected to describe
paralysis beneath a cave-in.

They dug you out, but no hands reach you now.
Your story is complete.  The tumor pressed you
down in ways no one could defeat and

I despise it.  You would have wanted to
assure me that you’re in a better place;
I want that for you.  But here,

I fight the enemy of your absence.
I can’t get another handshake or hardy laugh.
There is no father, no husband,

no uncle who donned an apron and cooked
chicken halves at picnics on a giant barbecue
he welded in the garage;

no quick joke or story to bring a smile;
no soft voice—the sound of a Vermonter—asking,
well hi John, what’s going on with you?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loudly; I am only five or six and
a bit afraid of the great rasp.  Now,

I just hurt—God gave you for my Uncle;
I’ve known some love through you—I miss you,
but I’m willing to believe that is good news.

On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.

Elegy For My Uncle Steve

Strong, smart, and fun come immediately to mind.  Anyone
who knew you—who knew your big heart and smile—understands.
You would ask, “Well hey, John, what’s been going on with you?”

I would say, “Not much,” and act a bit shy because you had
A certain presence, a confidence.  And I sensed your ability to do
Anything you set your mind to.  You were quick with a joke or a story,

Good ones too.  The kind that made me smile, made me happy
I had an Uncle.  You knew how to do that.  I can hear
Your soft voice: the sound of a Vermonter.  I remember how

You praised Grandma’s cooking and spoke to my Mother with
Respect.  I remember your snores.  I remember how
Your able hands built things that your mind designed.

You welded a giant barbecue, then cooked chicken halves
At picnics.  I liked that.  You were at peace and content with
Your apron, your sauce, and that delicious smoke.  You asked,

With a grateful look in your eye, “Are you ready for another?”
You wanted to give, and to make the most of what life gave.
You had courage and lived for the good of others.

Really, you died twice, but the first time you got another chance.
A miracle, some would say.  Buried alive, then resurrected
From that pile of dirt, pulled back from the very brink.

But this time it is ultimate, complete.  You
Won’t be coming back and I just don’t like it.  No,
I don’t like it very much at all.  I feel very

Unhappy about it, to tell you the truth.  Perhaps,
If you could, you would tell me to not worry, to let you go,
That you are at peace with your Maker.  I want that for you.

But for me, your passing is an enemy that I’m finding
Hard to fight.  I want another handshake, another laugh
With you.  I want you still to be a father, a husband,

A friend who cares and shows it.  So I remind myself:
The love I knew from you came through you, you were the
Uncle Steve God gave me and, my missing you is good news.

(for Stephen A. Kittredge, 1945-2009)

Death By Disagreement

We didn’t see it coming—our death
by disagreement—could not concur
to build up or tear down. So
we gave up on our labors,
cursed our dying saviors,
packed the bags and turned the car around.

We left a cairn to our dispute:
bricks unused and neatly waiting,
neatly sitting in their stacks in quietude.
They eyed our cold defiance and
the looming clouds of violence;
They glared at us in speechless rectitude.

We plunged our leaking pitchers into
murky broken cisterns then
washed our wounds beside the bitter
well. We rubbed our chafing hands
one against the other. A crooked,
stiff and silent spirit fell.

We diminished peace and wisdom
like the leaving out from Eden left
a rotting core of too-much-knowledge fruit.
The temptation, when it rose,
hit us squarely in the nose. Awful
be-less-human freedom set its root.

We were quick to take no action and
the tree of satisfaction, though
eager to show bloom did not produce.
We bit down on ripe deceit,
brushed aside the harvest wheat;
from our chins ran mingled tears and juice.

“You will not die,” the clever words by which
we suddenly drew swords. Bitter
grief did not regain the loss of life.
As builders we despised the tested
stone that, for our lives, has become the
shelter stone against all strife.