The Painted Swing

The cold takes my breath,
but I concede, give myself
to the strength of worn slats,
grooves made by the many
throughout the years.

I embrace the feeling.
Between hormones and liquor,
the hard cold is a relief
embraceable and real.

I say, into the phone propped
on shoulders drooping more
each year, I had to do it,
Mom. It's my job. I had to enter
the room my father died in, pay
attention to the words of another
in that bed where his life ended,
become a vehicle, a lifeline,
the mourning daughter
an aside.

And I can't write this poem
because I am thinking
it is a poem and only a poem.
But it is not. It is a life.
It is many lifes.
It is about life.
And. That's all.

The Training

They tell you
what to say
and how to say
what you say
without seeming
to be giving
advice,
without being
intrusive as the lone
warbler in the holly
singing its heart out
at four AM.

They tell you
the best thing
you can do
is listen,
let your ears
become
white porcelain
gods, black grates
spread across
the wide divide,
the softness
of a summer
lawn, echoes
inside a tunnel.

They say:
you make a plan,
set goals, make
certain the goals
are reasonable--
lay the blueprint
kind of thing--
as if you are designing
a city and need
to know
where to place
the subdivisions,
the shopping malls,
the grocery stores--
anywhere
but the shady alley,
the worn couch
in a dark
livingroom,
the new bed,
sheets twisted,
body entangled
in the messiness
of living.

How many of them
work the front line,
I wonder, as I choose
a doughnut I don't want,
coffee I will drink
from necessity, make
small talk with others
who know, too,
the salvation of small
talk and bad food.

Dog Asleep on Floor: All's Right in the World


I was going to write about what seemed
or seems right with the world at this moment
and just lost it. Seems pretentious (don't even know
if that's how to spell the damn word--cant spell anymore).

to write about how good the house smells
fresh vegetables, garlic, onions, herbs
how even the sneezing and cold outside
don't seem to matter.

But im tanked. that;s why. let me sober up and things
won't seem so whole and right. why cant there be something
out there somewhere to allow me this? then i would not
be fat and unhealthy. my heart and liver would love
me. all my friends would say Gee, you look great
what have you been doing to look so great? and the energy
i'd have, oh, gee whiz, man oh man. just to think about it
makes my head spin.

and the dog is asleep on the floor near the kitchen, filled
with the aroma of my caring. and the house is warm enough
and my clothes are packed for the next trip. and i am not
alone but always feel alone. and it's not one person's fault.
not anyones./ and i feel too much shame and guilt to write
about what i want to say and i think i may always.

but i am at this moment ok. another sneeze rising,
postnasal drip choking me. time for another sip
of elixir. oh yes.

Concessions

The rain taps lightly
against the window,
not really wanting in,

but insisting to be
heard. Cars drive
by out front. I hear

the water displace
beneath their wheels,
spinning out and back

again, back to the black
they've fallen upon, darkness
closing in, laying its claim

to the innocent and guilty
alike. There is no control.
There is only the rain,

the soup cooking in the kitchen,
the wrist swollen and damaged,
leaves abandoning trees in droves,

waiting for winter to have its say.

Rain & dreams & a swollen wrist

It's raining, and I am glad for it.

*

Strange dreams all night. Woke to one in which my father
was driving a large bus--a tour bus or school bus. My siblings,
mother, and children were all aboard the bus, but no one other
than family. None of us were sitting together. We were seated
randomly all over the bus. I could see the back of my father's
head. I said to my sister or daughter (can't remember) Why
isn't anyone up there with Dad? I know he's tired. So, I went
to the front of the bus and said, Dad, you don't look well. Let
someone else drive.

Even though I called him Dad, he was clearly not my dad.
As a matter of fact, he was the size of a 1 year old child
who looked like one those children with that rare disorder
which makes a child age quickly (will have to look that up).

I said, Come here. Let me hold you. And I scooped him
up from the driver's seat and held him in my arms saying
There, there now. It's going to be ok. And in this strange little
voice, he started speaking to me. I could not understand much,
but I understood Hugs and I said, Yes, of course,
hugs are good, and I hugged him tightly and stroked his back like
you would stroke the back of your sick child. And then he said
something about Anna (my niece). And I said, You want to talk to
Anna? And he indicated he did. And I think I said, Anna knows
you're sorry. It's ok.

And I woke up.

*

My left wrist has been swollen and hurting for about 5 days now.
I woke up Tuesday morning, I think, in pain and could hardly
move my wrist. I vaguely remember dreaming about hurting
it. Maybe I fractured it in my sleep. Who knows.

*

No results yet from Judy's chest X-ray. She is very concerned,
understandably.

Tonight

Nashville. Heard David Kaczynski (sp) address
the crowd gathered about his brother, Ted,
the Unabomber, and severe mental illness.
Bill Babbit (sp) was there talking about his brother,
Manny, as well. Glad my daughter told me about this
event. My strong, brave, filled with conviction daughter.

Last night, on call. did not get home until after 2. Took
an hour to get to the hospital, hour to assess, hour to get
home. Should be in bed. But can't sleep. So many
issues, thoughts, causes, people in my mind.

Tx team in the AM early. Should shower now. Don't
think I can sleep.

*

And, on the way to Nashville, my sister called to tell me she had
a TB skin test. Positive. X-ray tomorrow. Researching sites.

*

So, I drove to Nashville (200 mile round trip)
and back after I got off work.

*
I am tired but the wheel is on fire.