Cosmogony
Eavesdropping on night sky,
I listen to the stars
whisper lines of verse
to one another
across lightyears
in the electromagnetic
language of god—
each of the trillions of galaxies
intoning a celestial renga
of chaos and creation.
We humans, a mere
comma in the endless poem.
Lessons from Lockdown
None of us can truly know
the heart of the innocent man
waiting on death row,
though living in this pandemic
makes us feel closer to
believing we fathom some
great injustice.
That death is the only promise
life ever made, is made
more visible now
by this invisible virus
soaring in and out on breath.
Taking stock, taking inventory
however you say it
(and not just of consumables
like toilet paper and beans)
arrives eventually,
for all of us,
days or weeks into lockdown.
Whether we’ve been furloughed
(or just plain let go)
from our jobs,
or have taken to working from home,
we come to that urgent
question honestly—
what matters most in this moment?
Contemplating impermanence,
cherished clichés come first—
love and family and peace.
Shelter, and safety and sustenance.
Friends and all our faculties—
sight and breath and movement
most of all,
while touch evades
those of us fully alone.
Home is the sky
that is always beautiful,
and the tree that leans a little,
the chickadees coming
to the feeder outside
the kitchen window.
The low moon swooning
and disappearing into the night.
Heightened awareness
of sweetness.
Beloved voices arriving
on the various devices.
Giving and grace
become commonplace—
singing, composing,
planting herbs,
dancing at the curb,
dropping off goodies
for the elderly couple
up the street.
We can keep this all going,
the simple goodnesses,
the heightened senses,
even without threat of virus,
without sacrifice.
All that is necessary—
a shift in attitude from
being among the condemned—
to a gratitude for what is,
for the absurdity of uncertainty’s
boundless lessons and blessings.
A decade ago on this date, my brother died of a 9-11-related illness.
This poem is from a collection about my brother, called
The Dead Boy Sings in Heaven.
The title comes from all my memories having been altered by knowing
how young he'd die, so that even in my childhood memories,
I began thinking of my brother as the dead boy.
He's in my heart always, but especially now,
since he was a first responder.
The Dead Boy Cruises
for my older brother Alan
This may be the happiest
moment of my life.
I never get to tag along
with my brother at nighttime.
I’m in the backseat
of the dead boy’s
hilarious friend Vinnie’s
red AMC Pacer,
squeezed into the middle hump
by his friends
Richard (the smart one)
and Danny (the cute one).
My brother rides shotgun.
The windows rolled down,
the stars clear,
the radio throngs
“The Night Chicago Died”
all the way up
Rockaway Boulevard.
Everyone is quiet.
All there is
is the cruise,
and the breeze,
and song after song,
that make my heart beat
likes it’s in my throat.
As if to signal a turn,
the dead boy
extends his arm
out the open window.
My brother’s hand becomes
a sail.
Mother’s Day Gift in the Pandemic
As the young man comes closer
than three feet to hand me
a complementary
Mother's Day gift bag,
You may be killing me
is what I think but do not say,
feeling the heat of fury
rise in my throat.
I am trying to keep my mouth shut,
hold my breath,
my cotton mask no match for his youth
and eagerness to provide
cheerful customer service.
He has on a mask, but somehow
I can tell he's smiling—
happy eyes.
He’s high school age,
maybe a bit older,
wants to chat.
Says he's going to go
for lots of hikes.
Never has he appreciated the sun
so much since coronavirus,
all this being trapped indoors.
He seems so fervent and strong
and maybe will have
a whole life ahead of him.
I hope so.
Mine may be over soon
now that his breath has come
within the death radius.
He glows with health.
I have lived longer than
I ever believed I would,
an angsty teen thinking maybe
I'd make it to 21.
But the years passed with me
still breathing.
I see now even in the worst
of times—with my grandmother
dying, my violent husband
trying to kill me,
my father dying,
my separation, divorce,
my best friend dying,
my brother dying—
all of it was a gift
I had little idea how to unwrap,
how to make use of.
Now as each day is
a promise not made,
I cherish the sweetness
of this boy's optimism,
my little puff of anger gone.
I have never been a mother
to any but four-legged creatures.
Suddenly I have this lethal urge
to hug this young man—
Coronavirus be damned—
tell him he is wonderful
and loved and the world is
better for his presence in it.
I do neither.
I don't know him.
But I do wish him well
and thank him
for his heroism in this time.
I hope the world will be
the kind of mother
he needs most.
As for me,
today is as good a last day
on earth as any.
Though I'd rather rain
than this balmy sun.
I've had a mere five decades to
practice my humanity,
still very much a work in progress.
No one ever gets it completely right
my Buddhist coach assures me.
Last week she came close to
being in a fatal auto accident.
The sun was not so blameless then,
blinding her as she came
around a curve.
Who would have thought us
as fragile as we are
against light and breath?
Today I will pet my dogs
and cats and hug my husband.
Drink tea.
Eat a ginger cookie or two.
It will be enough. More than.
Pandemic Wonderfor Andy
None of us is immune
to death, we humans born
with an expiration guarantee.
This was always the deal.
So why does death feel
more real than ever before?
There’s no cure or vaccine
for the Corvid 19 yet, sure
and there may never be.
Perhaps it will rage
through all humanity
until only the fittest remain.
How many lives will be
claimed when this
pandemic is finally history?
That, and for how long
this enforced isolation will
continue are a fatal mystery.
But you and I are blessed
that while living through
such stressful times, we are
one another’s shelter in place,
each other’s compassionate grace.
And the days, however brief
they may be, grow sweeter
not in spite of, but because of
coronavirus’ looming noose.
We live so much closer now—
as we should have done all along,
a gift granted by uncertainty—
this death threat that heightens
and enlivens our love.