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      Your eyes and lips and nose

      are startlingly my father’s,

      your waistline—mine, but those

      likenesses are all it offers.

      I am your last grandchild,

      the one you never knew.

      Were you fragile, sharp, and wild?

      Am I at all like you?

      Behind the Wheel

      You say yes, I say no, you say

      Stop and I say go, go, go. . .

      “Hey, Ma, I heard you singing this old Beatle’s

      song and thought I’d pop around and join you.”

      Alone with John, Paul, George, and Ringo,

      I shiver, pounding the steering wheel.

      “Hear those birds? I used that chirping sample

      on my CD....blackbird singing in the dead. . .

      “You can’t drop in whenever.

      You don’t get to choose.”

      “Remember when the DJ played

      Twist and Shout? We danced at the reception.”

      He sat shot gun, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder.

      Tears sprinted down my face.

      “Ah, Ma. What’s the matter? Nothing is real.

      Nothing to get hung about,” he sings.

      “‘What’s the matter’ you say? The matter is

      I forgot that dance, then you show up.”

      “Come on! Teaching you to twist was great.

      Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song...”

      “You fell out of time. You are dead.

      Now act dead. Stop showing up.”

      He fades a shade or two and checks his phone.

      I search his eyes. They blur over.

      “Hey, I only meant today.

      Not everyday. Not for always.”

      His singing dims, “songs of laughter, shades of earth,

      . . . call me on across the universe. . .”

      “Oh, no. . . ‘I don’t know why you say goodbye

      I say hello.’ Hello, hello. . .?”

      Forty Julys

      It is July 1974:

      four friends, a New York beach, and fireflies.

      We swear we will be close forever and a day,

      mountain roads, deer, and singing leaves,

      four friends, a New York beach, fireflies,

      transistor radios and talk of boys.

      On mountain roads, under emerald leaves,

      we chat on about our future lives.

      Over the radio’s hum, we talk of boys,

      mosquito bites, Bactine, and suntan lotion.

      We chat on about our future lives,

      college plans, our older selves as wives,

      more mosquito bites, Let’s try Calamine.

      I hide my fear of summer’s forward motion

      and July’s dwindling days, no longer mine.

      Gazing at the Adirondack sky,

      I sense the sting that life and love might bring

      and memorize that Adirondack blue.

      (We swore we would be close forever and a day,

      but that was years ago—forty Julys—)

      Fried Mush and Maple Syrup

      You winked and raised your

      index finger to your lips.

      The lard spit; I jumped.

      You glanced over your shoulder.

      You spooned cold yellow squares

      into the cast iron pan.

      Pale yellow turned to gold,

      the edges crisped and browned.

      You carefully lifted the squares

      onto each white plastic plate.

      Slice the butter you said

      and handed me the knife.

      I put two cool cubes

      on fried corn meal squares

      and watched them melt, pool

      and swim toward the edges.

      You removed Aunt Jemima’s cap

      and lifted her glass body.

      We sat on the floor

      watching black and white cartoons.

      You whispered, Don’t tell Mommy

      I fried mush for breakfast.

      I chewed that sticky secret,

      so tender, crisp, and rich.

      Vacant Blue

      I race through florescent terminals

      lugging my load. I fly

      above green squares of wheat

      through vacant blue, wondering how

      I, for fifty years unblessed,

      Can conjure love to ease

      you into rest? As neon

      spikes and dips monitor arrhythmic

      beats and fitful, shallow breaths,

      you lie oblivious this night.

      I place my hand on

      yours. It is still warm.

      I study your high cheekbones,

      your closed eyes, your hair,

      too short, your double chin.

      Our breath mingles. A second

      hand marks time as red

      flashing spikes and dips smooth

      into two straight lines, traveling

      left to right ad infinitum.

      I say...though I walk

      through the valley of shadow . . . .

      I will fear no evil,

      Thou art with me...I

      brush your forehead. My fingertips

      trace your cheek. The only

      word I know is grace

      to name this thing that

      fills love’s empty place.

      Advent

      The trees are empty, daylight wanes.

      December air hangs cold and blue.

      I stand on fallow, frozen ground,

      and dream fresh dreams of Earth made new.

      In my dreams, I’m

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