Miscarriage Again

Death,
    you are the enemy, you took two friends,
and if you can hold them you have seized the wind.
We weep for ones taken, and are as shaken
by bleak absence as by your uninvited presence.

At dinner, we sit around the table with living kin.
We pray and, when our eyes open to each other’s faces, 
we linger over life in a womb—with two fingers
we make small guesses—No bigger than this?  Yes! 

    Death, we do not want for grief,
but there is a Wing you may not reach beneath. 
There, your hand cannot grasp fragile forms
and your grip has ceased to close on even these
tiny
living human beings.

Cashier

Sunday morning,
after church shopping list:
bananas
bread
bologna
tomato soup
diapers.

At the register
the cashier
runs to grab a flier,
plucks the coupon
for five dollars off
any size Pampers. 

We make our way
toward home—
plastic sacks,
hungry kids,
full air in all four tires.

Dad’s Journal, Saturday January 1st

Arose, made coffee, oatmeal, and a list.
Hugged and kissed spouse, and prayed.
Discussed a canoe, a massage—a birthday.
Chased, regained, attempted to retain
next door neighbor’s pet, crazy.
Climbed up and down attic staircase,
then folded stairs away.

Exercised paintbrush on desktop
and taught third grader a bit
about how to paint.  Made a lap:
dressed toddler in pink boots
and green shirt.  Went out to help
with fifth grade science experiment
before it rained—got damp anyway.

Brushed and rolled here and there.
Watched fifth grader play computer game.
Watched Popeye and the gang.
Cleaned up for dinner.  Sat down
with family and ate.  Beheld faces,
took up the graces, read books…
then wrote, and hit the hay.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!
That knocked the dust off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Get your glove up.
Switch sides, I’ve got sunglasses.

You throw what I throw.
I want to do a jump catch.
Hey!  That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just one more
—I mean one of each—
grounders, pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey Dad?
When can we play catch again?

On Disagreement

These bricks, in our hands,
rise up like storms to wreck our plans
on disagreement—to lay up, or pull down?  
These mortar joints and tools
break the arms of worker-fools.
For us, there is no harbor in this town.

If bricks could attest,
They’d raise a cairn to our unrest;
This post would tell of work yet to be done.
It can only point the way
back to where we quit the fray.
For us, there is no haven from the sun.

These bricks build choices;
they raise questions without voices.
The answers are chisels on a stone.
Bricks can compromise;
they won’t bruise or get black eyes!
For us, deals are made of flesh and bone.

These bricks will destroy—
rise up like lonely in a boy—
while, ignorant, I try to keep my life.
…we can build…we can rise…
there is time to gain the prize.
For us, the shelter stone is in the strife.

cairn: a marker, often a pile of stones

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 there John, what’s going on?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loud; 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.

Cockroach

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
How ever did he get there?
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder,
like he came right out of thin air!

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
Jump around and scream like crazy!
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
At least he isn’t on the baby!

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
Brush him off and mash him quick!
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
I think I’m going to be sick.

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
He came by to have some supper.
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
At least he didn’t bring his brother!