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.

The Sugar Shack

The little place in the back is the
sugar shack. Behind that door we
make maple syrup. The floor is dirt.
A hole in the roof lets steam out.
It’s a maple sap-evaporating-house,

like an outdoor kitchen, but you
don’t have to wash your hands. Collect
40 gallons of sap to get one gallon of
syrup. Just boil it and boil it. Dad’s
about to get the fire lit.

He stacks up dry, fast burning sticks
and puts on heat-proof gloves. The
firebox turns roaring red, enough
to singe your hair! He shields himself
and squints when he looks in there.

As sap turns into syrup, Dad
dips a spatula to test it. An
apron on the dipper’s edge says
it is right. He puts a milk can under
the spout and lets the sweet stuff out.

Here. Take this Styrofoam cup.
Dad will let us try it. Mmmm! Can
you smell that? Come on, let’s run!
Slide back the big door! Let’s
go inside and get some!