one more small loss in the immense field of losses
the orange koi survived the embers
weathered the flames
withstood the ash
through it all they swam circles
in the little stone pond
but the day came when the bulldozer
rumbled and scraped and wrought
smooth dirt where their little depression had been
some things are not survivable
not all allegories have happy ends
now this earth bears
their quiet little bodies, too
Lost Bounce
Inspired by a prompt from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s Loving the Self: A Poetry Playshop.
the sight of all the burned-out trampolines
flipped over, blown far from their families
silver u’s sticking into the air
like uncomfortable metal bridgework
puts a little hollowness in me these days –
you know there are not-laughing children
to go with each one
trampoline, you raise us up and encircle us
make a safe-ish place to be wild
test limits and bump up against our edges
you launch us into that part of childhood
that’s more about risk than safety
and make a quiet screened place
to whisper with friends
black and blue and endlessly round
you teach us how to lighten up
and we feel the pleasure of becoming buoyant
internalize that we are capable
of reaching much greater heights
than we ever thought
we love you for your whiff of danger
the broken clips and snagged nets
blue borders always shredding away to nothingness
your tenuous connection to earth
and warm embrace of sky
our muscles absorb how to bounce back
we integrate the feel of resilience
how to float and sink and go
with what the moment demands
rather than stiffly thudding through each jolt and jar
so each abandoned naked metal circle
makes my mouth go sour
makes my heart sink a touch lower
koimeterion
driving past the burn today
I finally name what it evokes in me –
cemetery:
the structures low to the ground
the winding streets now going nowhere
the arboretum of cultivated trees
the metal shapes like iron railings
delineating a family plot
so many memories interred
in each rectangular basement-crypt
nearly everything gone to ashes already
from the Greek word for sleeping place
where souls once breathed quiet midnight dreams
(or tossed fitfully, as it may be)
now there’s only the eerie absence of an old life gone
catalog of irreplaceable losses
my husband and I discuss
what we’d wish to take from our home
if we had time:
our children
our dog
our bird
wallets, coats, hats, gloves, shoes
(practical for immediate survival)
the mini photo albums we’ve made each year
since our children were born
our boxes of letters
the framed photos in our hallway
(some exist nowhere else)
my journals
our Christmas stockings
(all handmade)
the quilts Amma stitched for the boys
the original artwork we own
Grammy’s viola
Owen’s bass clarinet
the box of heirloom family baby clothes
these are the things for which there’d be no substitute
it seems to us
(our photos were scanned years ago –
the cloud cuts our losses so much these days)
but the truth is
we’ve been through three fires between us
and barely saved a thing
when he was in high school,
in the Black Tiger Fire in 1989,
Alex fled his Betasso home with a neighbor –
doesn’t recall taking anything at all
I was home alone for the other two:
a chimney fire in Nederland
around 1997
and our Louisville home was struck by lightning
around 2003
and a bit of the attic burned
all three were before cell phones
(for us)
and both times I called 911
then ran out of the house
in Louisville I put the dogs in the cottage
then changed my mind,
and brought them to the car
both times I stood out front
waited for sirens
then decided to run back in for my coat
(and hat and gloves and scarf in Ned)
stood out front again
then thought about my purse
ran back in and grabbed that, too
then met the firefighters
in Ned I was embarrassed when they asked
if I’d closed the vent
and I had to say no,
chagrined I hadn’t even thought to starve the flames
but that’s all the getting I ever did –
not even the box of important documents –
and I feel no shame in that;
there simply was no time
so why make this list now
when there’s so little chance we’d ever
have the luxury of checking it?
it’s a way to acknowledge
to our friends and ancestors
what they’ve entrusted us with
that we feel most responsible for –
what we’d be most gutted to lose
even the police chief’s house burned
I learn, this fact mentioned off-handedly
in an article about another officer
who also lost his home
and all the previous press conferences,
him standing calmly in that grey fleece,
one of his only clothes left, take on a new tenor
his clear-eyed steadiness despite
the incineration of his home for 32 years
attains a new level of grace
no, there was no earthly power
that could intercede with those wind-whipped flames,
no pull or clout or in to spare what would be taken
which makes it all the more astonishing
what we were granted: the schools, post office, hospital,
rec center, police and fire stations –
yes, much to be grateful for,
which doesn’t diminish the grief
the police chief felt that night
or that I feel now for him
on the disbanding of the Sifter Squad
I signed up to sift ash
but within hours
the public health people
warned us to stop.
Isn’t that just how it is these days
when Grandma’s soup bowl
and a couple of drawer pulls
will find a way to kill you, too?
I was looking forward to playing
neighborhood archeologist.
I was looking forward to finding
something someone had lost.
This poem was written in response to this comic, which deeply saddened one of our sons. I actually reached out to the artist to see if she might have anything comforting to communicate to him, but I have not received a response. The article explains that she drew the comic to encourage drivers to slow down for ducklings. Our kids found it by Googling “duck comic.”
tragic
all the departing souls saying
I’m so sorry
all the dying pleading
Can you say goodbye to me?
our sweet son sees a comic
of a ghost duckling
taking leave of his mama
and knows the devastating truth of it –
they’ll never know each other again
we are not the faithful it is written type
no, we’re bound to hang on to breath
and the dear flawed souls around us
with our heels dug in
teeth gritted
not taking any chances on some future homecoming
or even any afterlife
I want to shake that artist
until her own teeth rattle
and demand
What were you thinking?
There’s enough real tragedy in sight
without making him mourn
your damned duck
or his mother.
Why make his world any more sad
than tomorrow demands?
