trimming
trimming
my father
tall and lanky
briefly looking the Irishman
he was (but never mentioned):
white forearms
with dark, feathery hairs
languid fingers built for piano
an army flattop
and a shiny class ring
poised
over a friend who’s praying
Bill will clip his thicket of hair
faster than a parent can drive
my dad’s short-sleeved Henley’s
just like the one
I stole from my mother’s drawer
to bridge the gap
between the ‘60’s and me.
he’s focused and bemused
but there’s something off-putting
in those intense Goyaesque hands
that I noted on the hospital bed
and his cheekbones honed by hunger
today a man I never met
gifted me a revelation:
our parents had lives
we know nothing about
plus there’s still an awkward teenager
in every one of us
July on the Plains
July on the Plains
you go east
tumbling out of the mountains
just like Clear Creek
but before you hit the malty smell of Coors
turn north
skirt the tilted tablelands
where the ground ruptured
while birthing mountains
and now the prickly dark-ever-green
of forest
has given way
to the stiff serrated-yellow-green
of grass –
you don’t need
the window down
to sense the heat rising in waves
from the baking land,
you feel it inside, too –
setting things on edge
bringing you one step closer
to boiling over
what I didn’t do
what I didn’t do
soak in the clawfoot tub
with rose petal milk bath
run every blessed day
go to bed early
finish the 30 Day Yoga Challenge
finish (any) book
finish the Kamana poems
finish laying out The Perch Post
finish revising Lachrymation
light the candles at the foot of the bed
read the guest book comments
type up all the Caribou poems
embroider a visor
become fluent in Spanish
order business cards
see a pine marten
call my dad every single day
get there in time
in the end
there’s only so much
energy you can spend
cataloging what you let go
so you can live
only so many fires you can light
and keep fed
