Desert Life

Grief

 

 Santa Fe - 2008 

 

More was settled than the dust in that harsh
cold morning. The brightness was misleading.
No sun could warm the piercing chill.
Standing next to you, nearly touching,
I felt the glacier climbing up my ankles
reaching for my memories of you.

 

 

Massillon - 1952 - 1966

I rode your shoulders then
and touched the ceiling with my child's hands.
No one ever had a taller, fairer brother.

 

At 18 and at 23, you'd had enough and
left our town as though it was on fire,

not knowing that our town's gossip,

immortal, and our father's fatal flaws

clung like mites inside your lashes, blurring

memories as well as insight.

 

You mailed me your Army cap. I wore it faithfully
till some little b******s ripped it off.

 

Our father died. I got pregnant, married, dumb.
Contempt and fear sifted through those years.
The iciness of loss kept me in hiding. No avalanche
could frighten me as much as your impatient voice
closing up a conversation on the phone. I was not
allowed to see you, I was told to keep my distance.

 

 Santa Fe - 2008

  

When seventy-six you finally asked me home
to put in place the missing parts we shared.
Or so I thought. The old love I brought only
scattered decades' dust into your angry eyes,
brought on the raging ice, the arctic hate.
I mentioned dust just now, I think.

 

I felt it moving in my mouth, choking every word
I thought I'd use to bring my brother back.
Dust and ice. Christ, I thought I'd rather die
in dust and ice than face the fact: there'll be no
kind goodbyes, no final understanding, just
that flat taste of dried up earth and sting

 

of never-ending pointless ice. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

Various places 1965 - 2008

Author's Note

This is my first poem since returning from New Mexico. I got some good constructive criticism that I want to follow up on. Thanks to all who commented publically or privately.

11/7/2008 This is an entirely different poem about the same event. I'm getting a bit closer to want I want in this one.

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

You write good stuff.

Unfortunately , though you try repeatedly
you will never recapture those moments.

Writing is a tremendous therapy, but it
can, and nothing else can fix our lives.

You are special because you have come
as close to recapturing life as I have seen.
You also look life and death directly in the
eye and we are pleased.

------ Eagle Cruagh

[Samuel Dickens]

Ouch, I felt that. Too much do I know and feel on this subject. Death seals the box of unresolved differences forever. For lack of better words, I feel your pain, holly.

[Lexy]

I can see the emotion in your words, but I can't feel it. To be honest, I really didn't feel it. It's well written, don't get me wrong, but I think it's the style. Maybe because you had to have 10 syllables, and you had to work to incorporate it?

VC5

[Creepy Swine Guy]

What it is filled with is emotion. I see by reading, that an emotional eruption of seismic proportions has occurred. This poem makes me hurt for you, want to take hold of you and hug you until you run out of tears. I don't see a thing that should be different, except how we treat one another.