Moths, moths, moths.
The grandmother who still smiles out from a turnip carved
to be mostly teeth and watching, to house a heat and shimmer
that will leave it just like it leaves all things
can help you. You leave this unburied knot, this knob,
a glass of water, every night, and let it prove to you
the people you love are not lost,
that you in seeking out the voices of the dead
are found enough forever.
The watercolored dawn backsplashed the horizon in coral projecting a mystifying luminosity. The sun crested in a blaze fanning its beams and changing the pallet by the second. Maggie leaned on the sink’s edge, cradling her mug under her chin. She blew into the steaming cup. The spicy, floral scent harmonized with the beauty outside. She watched in awe, trying to disregard the not-so-clean camp window. The grunge reminded her of her social work in the city, the work with its noble mission and heartbreaking conditions. She was pleased to escape it for a time. The sunrise easily won her attention.
Muffled footsteps above broke the quiet. Zachary’s deep intonations mingled playfully with bright babbles of four-year-old Jackson. Maggie chuckled as she scanned the shoreline of the unpopulated lake. The now-faded sunrise, bordered by clusters of red, orange and gold-blazoned trees among dark evergreen spikes reflected on the placid surface. She loathed leaving the sight, but her two spirited guys’ activity forced her back to the cabin’s kitchen and preparations for their day, the first of the New England vacation. The anticipation of adventure on waterways and wooded trails had beckoned them for the better part of the year. Excitement rode high, now that they were here.
An hour later, Maggie plopped a floppy brimmed hat onto her son’s head and helped him with his child flotation vest. He giggled into it, eyes alight with self-importance to match his parents’ garb. Outside in the exquisitely fresh air, the three meandered the path to the pebbly beach and their patient canoe. Maggie seated herself in the bow, Jackson nestled onto the center seat, and Zack pushed off, hopping deftly into the stern.
They glided. A gentle breeze coaxed the water into friendly waves that lapped the boat’s sides. The fluid movement, nature’s song in the quiet, and the glimmer of sunlight on the silvery blue lulled the family into contemplation. Zachary matched the rhythm of Maggie’s strokes, intermittently dragging his paddle, pointing the bow toward another goal.
Now and then, turtles of varying sizes poked heads above the shining ripples, they sunned themselves in rows on shoreline logs or treaded through the murky depths near the canoe. In the shallows, schools of tiny fishes darted in unison, enrapturing young Jackson. Assigned as “First Spotter” for the expedition, he perched in revered exuberance training his eye more diligently than many a peer could’ve managed. His engaging parents praised any observation, whether flora, fin, or fauna.
“In the shallows, schools of tiny fishes darted in unison, enrapturing young Jackson.”
They traveled the length of the eastern shore around partially submerged rocks and a tree leaning low over the pond. Jackson imagined the sheltered space beneath as a hiding place of wonder. Just beyond, a loon they’d presumably heard calling in the night bobbed up and twisted its sharp-beaked head to fix a red eye upon them. It stretched its neck, examining the visitors over white-spotted folded wings on an iridescent black back. Just as suddenly, it dove and kept its watchers in suspense, emerging after so long, at an unexpected distance, in an unforeseen direction.
When the trio neared what had appeared to be the far side of the lake, the panorama opened to a channel coursing through a scattering of more submerged boulders into a second basin. Resisting this exploration, they beached on an obliging sandy shore to romp the area, dig into their lunch provisions, and enjoy the span of their progress until the lure of more enticed them back aboard.
The afternoon boasted a breeze and warmth. Layers of peeled clothing lay scattered on the canoe’s floor. Jackson trailed his fingers through the silky water watching the cooling resistance flow around his skin and diverge into little wakes. He played with the changing pattern, swirling his hand, varying the depth unintentionally when the craft rocked on unexpected waves. Infectious child laughter pealed across the pond.
A majestic pine on a wooded point bore an enormous nest woven of sturdy branches. And from a lofty perch nearby, the bald eagle stole their breath. His snowy head turned a hooked yellow beak surveying his dominion. The little family hushed. Their paddles silently dipped. Zachary steered an indirect course toward the impressive bird. Quite close, they observed for long moments before it spread its imposing wings and lifted off the branch. It soared above the pool in graceful circles. They followed its sky path and reaped the reward when the eagle plummeted, pivoted, and in a splash snatched a shining prize in its talons. The dripping fish flapped its tail as the eagle hefted it to the nest. Reluctantly, Zachary directed back toward camp.
The recounting of the wondrous and memorable sights of the day began and repeated. The peaceful images became ingrained. Back at the cabin, Maggie broke with the mission of relaxation, spurred by a spirit of transformation. She scrubbed the grime from the kitchen window, cleared away the spider webs and tree debris from the sill, and brushed the dust and old pollen from the screen. The clarity of the unobscured view solidified her decision eagerly matched by Zack, and later by an exuberant Jackson.
New England, the old vacation destination, became their beloved home. Waterways and woods, rocky shores and hills in each distinct and treasured season, spoke a familial, wordless language that resonated within them, claiming this place as a facet of self-definition.
Deadly thing, I am absorbed.
Numbing florals infiltrate
my nostrils, a lullaby gloom.
Late summer closes overhead.
Deep sun past my eyelids
my veins throb, then shut.
At last we are one, you and I.
At last we dance like
Macbeth’s suckling worms.
Crows bellow in the eaves.
Somewhere beyond my universe
they take flight and spiral down.
Their feathers, a deaf chorus.
Beak the last of me, dressed
in late summer lawn.
We cruise the skies.
Past fields of war dead
forgotten droves, mangled leaves.
Past dead cities.
Snow flurries among ruins
erasing memory, adversaries tired.
Over deadly things.
I am absorbed in the crow’s belly
safely hid from thundering storms.
I am forced further and higher
before I escape with a careless grunt
to flower in the soil.
I miss my father the most
when I'm hungover.
I want him to tell me it's okay
to be a mess,
to spend a day not knowing
if you want to eat the world
or throw it up,
crying at videos of kittens
rescued from garbage cans,
and then at yourself
for being the worst kind of sick,
the kind where no one
feels sorry for you.
I want him to tell me
I'm not like my mother
who drank until
there was no one left
to tell her not to,
who drank until
my father stopped,
because one of them
had to be sober enough
to keep a baby alive.
Last night, I sat on the sidewalk
outside of the bar,
head spinning, waiting
for my friend to pay.
A man walked toward me,
and I watched, paralyzed,
too fucked up to ask
what he wanted
or stop him
if it came to that.
As he passed by
I thought of the book I was reading,
It by Stephen King,
how the monster takes the form
of its victim's greatest fear,
and scared myself.
The needs creep
like the crabgrass, emerald
puddles in the dying lawn,
or like the daisies
she planted years ago
which we kept stabbing
and which every spring
snapkick the mower.
I put my weight on
my strong leg and leap
to a head start: I’ll do
what I want before the needs
tug like gravity, a riptide
I paddle against and am
swept to sea, where I’m made
by the struggle, like a man
home from wars
and travels, babbling
monsters and nymphs,
witches and gods,
the crash of the surf like
a man wanting and deciding
the care of the world
is what needs to get done.