grief – orphan poems

123. Caged

Behind the grey chain

link fence, a coyote who has worn out

the grass all over. When I stop to look

he trots to a worn adobe shell

staring sideways,

hating me.

I let my hands hang, claw fingers stuck

to the sun-hot links, let

hate

flay a world that would catch

a coyote, weave wire around and

give him nothing but a shell

of white-washed mud

to contain his fear

and shelter his hate.

The force of his eyes blew holes in the adobe.

In the dark his brothers sing wild hymns.

They say he was injured, that

this

is how they saved him,

death assumed to be less

than any life.

It can’t be true.

115. blindfolds

a man believes a ground war outdated,

settling my senses into the melancholy

of unnecessary and inevitable scars,

knowing nothing ends in the air

because we are of earth.

this morning my boots plowed

one path

through blizzard’s detritus,

streets abandoned, wind alone.

a raven shouted into the silence,

its word echoing between buildings.

this is how it was, I thought.

and this is how it is or will be because

only the faces change.

every day we blindfold ourselves,

spin around in the dark

and claim then to know where we are.

perhaps we do.

we stand where we have always stood,

in ourselves and little wiser.

106. war dead

today i found your phone

message and one envelope

that you had sent to

me last year before

you became just one more dead

man that I know.

you had sent a photo

that i saved and i won’t hold it

against my heart

or against you –

i for one know the cost of no

interior rest and

i’d not have lasted

as long, whiskey and gun as

backboard or not.

well i did save it

just not as a sacrament.

more like a scar that

can still raise a smile.

it’s there in a flat tin, now

second drawer down

where the accidents

are filed. Let’s assume you could

not have saved yourself

since no one else could

save you. Let’s assume

you’re now comfortable,

warm

loved.

101. in my dreams

last night i picked up

the phone but you were still dead.

you keep calling me

though it’s hard to hear

your words this way, hard to trade

old photos of our

heroes, your new collage,

my aimlessly wandering

with found objects and

tribal members. your

brother is angry and P

is angry with me

which is easier.

i’m fine. i’ve seen your face on

strangers in philly

and once in DC … you

winked at me, no less – nice touch

and every time

i inscribe three dots

on the bottom of a clay

pot i smile for you

now untouchable.

it’s always nice to hear from

you. it’s just hard to

understand over this phone.

i’ve reserved a place for you

in my dreams tonight.

84. land

my beloved land,

grass thick as beaver

pelt, light rolling across it,

licking the sky …

yes, clouds the very

breath of space and earth

muttering east, rubbing against blue

so blue my bones ache …

my beloved land.

bury my now terrified

heart. when this war is gone

drink down this blood.

how will we each live with each

other then,

ashamed?

35. fast cloud

you passed by the willows

where they bend brushing water.

that is where i remember you,

your brown shoulders moving

smoothly as deer dipping

under young branches to meet me.

when you rode at dawn did you see me

in the willow shadows watching your body

become the galloping horse’s body

moving across grass like a fast cloud?

now when wind shifts against hissing grasses

i hear your flute song calling down dusk,

healing my slashed arms still wanting to bleed

this life back into earth to follow you

on a trail to the stars.

do you ever pause to watch a fast cloud

chase the herd you left below?

do you see a woman standing still by the willows

watching spaces between branches,

waiting for you?

18. i remember

remember the

feel of grass blown against lean

thighs, hot scent of dirt.

i remember each

breath we breathed of each other’s

under the blanket.

i remember you

and wonder who am I, who

am I now: pale, lost.

i remember language

of seasons, timber cracking

of cold, rivers sighing.

now I have nothing.

no one now knows the thread counts

woven together,

breath of one wind, our

beat of one old earth heart, one

longing cloud’s soft moan …

i remember when

i belonged against the earth,

brown and dusty.