Author: admin

Your limbs quiver as the wood floor slips under
your nails and your flanks knock into furniture.

You’re braving your longest trek: from couch to
kitchen to water dish. With lightning in my heart,

I watch you unlearning how to walk—a puppy
in reverse. Then, water lapped and food sniffed,

you labor back to the living room.

When I help you
scrabble onto the couch beside me, your eyes pool

acceptance, gratitude. And a flash of something else,
cutting pity to the quick. Hiding dread, I begin

to croon, stroking your velvet ears.

Soon, my body
too will tortoise its greatest journey—

sofa to kitchen to kettle to cup. I imagine each
muscle fierce in meditation on how to wed

feet to floor and hand to table’s edge. Like yours,
my rippling youth, once swift and careless, will be

supplanted by a different grace—desire untethered
from control.

Reading my thoughts, you lick my face,

then circle the sofa cushion, making a nest of air
to sleep away the afternoon.

Don’t worry, Ace,
I murmur. I’m taking notes.

A poem tells the heart: it must be true—
unless perception is a lie and all
considered feeling false; unless we err
by saying, steal the essence of the said
or bury it among the speechless dead.
If by my lines I mean to raise, to stir
awake, to show, if you should look and call
it wrong, or say I have no right, where do
I go? What should I write, distrusted, if
not what I have written in good faith?
What is the spirit of the art? Let true
be wider than the witness, I or you;
let words give substance to the poem’s wraith
and let us meet it running to the cliff.

Now I will never go to the tern colonies
where I learned to spot nests in the sand
and collect chicks for you to band swiftly,
noting their sex and type: Common or Arctic or Least.
You blew on their bellies with a straw
to show there are no feathers there.
I felt their heartbeats tremble against my cheek,
their ankles that could snap like twigs.

I will never fall face-first in the sand,
body sprawled toward the one that got away:
if we are a week too late with the banding,
chicks run and scoot beyond my grasp.
Your torso shifts back
like an old tree laughing at me.
My hat is askew. Terns circle and squawk,
protesting our invasion. They dive
for the highest point: a tall stick
sewn to the side of my hat, inside of which
is blood, stained from other expeditions
when terns outsmarted us
or aimed badly in anger.
They escort us to the skiff,
restless like an army at the tide-line.

You knew how long those birds live,
when the chicks would be ready for flight,
the rate they traveled south on trade winds.

I knew how it felt to be small in the palm of your hand.

The presence of their square bodies
large and uncommon in our small rooms
half brothers
same shoulders, jaw, hips,
same lack of height
forty years from boyhood
400 miles apart

visiting back
passing through our home
for an hour
pawing through the sepia box
of photos
then asking,

surprisingly,

for songs
and melting
into the couch

no more need
to joke
hold up
explain

anything

just be doused
in their father’s singing
and mine
voices and guitars running
around the strings

carry them back
to the smell of wooden walls
the timber frame kitchen

songs soothe
though one of their faces reddens
to look at his old man
and shiver the truth of Kate Wolf’s lyrics.
We’ve only got these times we’re living in.

“Dad, sing your version of Country Roads.”
And so he does.
My favorite the bridge.
“Through the Detroit streets I can hear her distant calling…
And being here together makes me think we should’ve taken our stand yesterday.
Yesterday.”

My mind turns to Tygart Valley Middle School
music class
The discussion we led.
Is West Virginia just a land for leaving?
What does it mean, “Take our stand?”
I drilled our students to recite this line over and over,
“And being here together…”
‘til it rolled off the tongue in song.

I said none of this to my stepsons.
Tried to step aside
to allow a direct if fragile line from son to father
and back again
a thick rope of childhood bonds
frayed from lack of care through the decades
but ropey still
invisible as a spider’s web
which they say is stronger than steel

Emily – now I get it – no psychology here
no diagnosis – no problem of the mind.
It’s eggs and flour
the call to rise – the call to write
before the hemlock’s longest shade.

We close the gate – latch the door
plan a meal for two alone – melt the chocolate
thank the bee for every
sweet and golden thing –
we save our lives.

We circle the table
the garden –
the neighborhood.
We keep safe distance between
us and them and dread.

We walk to feel rhythm in the knees
the swinging arms – the hand wave.
We walk to shout out to neighbors –
How are you?
How are you?
How are you?

In the kitchen the dough grows high and wide
beneath checkered cloth
shaping itself in silent satisfaction.
Air fills with scent of gratitude.
When we cook – we are alive.

I mark the round loaf with knived crosses
put it into the red heat. Outside – a thousand
starlings in flight shape-shift into ribbons
coiled and uncoiled – their winged murmuration –
their black urgency. Today the sky will not fall.

(from the Summer of Three Foxes)

It is easier to boil water than it is to freeze it. It is easier to write a poem, pay
a bill, open a can of tuna, or peel a beet, than it is to read a book that has sat
too long on the kitchen table. A sandwich is a poor substitute for a husband
or lover. The couple ride everywhere together and are seeking a West Coast
miracle that can carry them through a winter and so they can be near their
children. I don’t know how to repair what is damaged other than to listen and
appreciate what you are saying and what you have done. I apologize a lot
these days and try to claim what I am accountable for. You say I am not
addressing something, hiding from what is directly in front of me. I am very
good at not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I have a lifetime of
avoidance, longing, and suppression, enough to found a new religion or
sustain one of the old ones. You ask me to think about how to see you in the
midst of obfuscation. Like an asterisk leading to a footnote. This man loves
this person, this flavor ice cream, the hand cut fries, this feeling of calm after
a good day when many days have not been good, standing outside and looking
up at the stars, falling asleep watching old episodes of The X Files with Scully’s
waves of hair and Mulder’s dry obstinacy. It is easier to walk around a large
pachyderm than it is to identify what we are touching with blindfolded eyes.
It is too early, or maybe it is already too late. What I imagine as a simple thing
is really more like cooking mung bean pancakes where the planning and
preparation extends for days. The things I see as complex require a gentle
touch, like a hand placed on a chest. A simple act that alters the heart, aligns
the body and mind, frees the discontent to reside elsewhere. At this hour I
am not dreaming, I am not touching softness, I am not thinking about the
morning. I am thinking about touching your arm and kissing the softest parts,
the underside of the wrist, the crook of the elbow. I am a distant conversation.
I am a distant husband, I am a distant father. Easier still is the body and the
secrets it holds in each of its scars. It feels good to touch me here, and here,
and yes, there too.

including the Peter Pan bus driver.

He seems normal enough –
until we’re on the road.

With him at the wheel
and on the microphone,
he’s got a captive audience.

“This bus will make the
following stops:
New Britain, Connecticut;
Hartford, Connecticut;
Springfield, Northampton, Greenfield, Massachusetts;
Brattleboro, Vermont and points north
to White River Junction.
Estimated time of arrival
is when you get there.”

I see him practicing his delivery
at home in the bathroom mirror,
making sure his face doesn’t give away
his punch line.
He perfects his timing,
gets it just right,
before delivering it to his audience.

But we are a small
and unresponsive group.
When he gets home
will he tell his wife
we were a tough crowd?

I sit on her porch.
Alone.
It’s quiet
Except for the faint
Rolling of crickets
Chirping their song.

There is a calm, cool breeze
Gently rocking the goldenrods.
The second day of autumn
Brings with it their sweet, soothing scent.

Only the distant hum of engines
Break into nature’s easy sway.

My girlfriend’s birthday is Friday.
I can’t talk to her
About what I’m really feeling and thinking.
She likes things calm—
No rocking the boat.

I wonder what to give her.
Dinner out?
A book?

She coos in high, praising tones
To her dog
As she enters her house.
I wish she’d talk to me like that
But that would be silly.

We’re ten years a couple.

The cool breeze causes goosebumps
To grow on my bare arms.
I’ll go greet her now.

We came upon the overturned boat
engulfed in catbrier, timbers rotting,
far from any body of water.

How had we missed it?

Hardly any blue
left on the hull.

You were leaving me,
I was leaving you,
but neither of us had so declared.

One thing we always did well
was walk those trails.

That boat had been sea-worthy,
took every pitch and roll.

Didn’t you reach for my hand?
Maybe I’m imagining.

Love had been complicated, then simple,
then gone. Now it is everywhere.

We didn’t try to get close
or touch it. We understood
it was where it belonged.

So, my mental illnesses and I are talking
in my head,
and it looks like one of those therapy-based support groups.
I’m sitting in the middle since it’s my turn to go.
They all have their outfits.
Autism wears the third new outfit that day,
bright and mismatched but so very me,
rocking slightly in their chair, hands fidgeting with the hem.
ADHD is pacing, barefoot,
their oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder,
an iced espresso cup in one hand,
a notebook in the other,
filled with half-finished ideas they’ll never revisit.
Dyscalculia is sitting cross-legged on the floor,
surrounded by a scatter of receipts and numbers
they can’t quite make sense of,
their face scrunched in frustration as they doodle
to forget how lost they feel.
C-PTSD sits stiffly in the corner,
wearing what I wore on the worst day of my life,
their eyes darting like they’re waiting for the floor to crack open
and swallow us whole.
Eating Disorder lounges on the edge of the group,
clutching an empty plate like a trophy,
their oversized hoodie swallowing them,
a smirk on their face that hides the ache underneath.
Sertraline is there, too,
sitting quietly off to the side,
wearing scrubs like a patient nurse,
passing me a glass of water and a small yellow pill.
They don’t say much,
but their presence feels steady, grounding,
a whisper that says, “Keep going.”
ADHD blurts out, “We’ve got so much to do!”
Their words overlap with Autism’s,
who mutters, “Can we just do one thing at a time? Please?”
Dyscalculia groans, “Do we have to do anything involving numbers?
I’ll mess it up again—I always do.”
C-PTSD doesn’t speak, but the weight of their silence is deafening,
a constant reminder of the shadows we carry.
5
Eating Disorder pipes up, their voice sharp and sly,
“We should skip dinner tonight. You don’t really need it, do you?”
Their words cut, but Sertraline catches my gaze,
steady as ever, reminding me to breathe.
And me?
I sit in the middle,
the only one without an outfit,
holding all their voices like tangled threads.
“Maybe,” I say, though my voice shakes,
“maybe we don’t have to figure it all out today.
Maybe the fact that we’re here,
talking, breathing, existing,
is enough.”
The room doesn’t fall silent—
it never does—
but for a moment, it feels lighter.
And I think,
maybe I’ll make it through another day.

The freedom an oak tree knows
                           That is built at night by stars—Linda Gregg

what           human mind                 can             fathom          the
slow           deliberate           tethered           freedom
enjoyed                     or                     borne                     by                     an
august           fissure-           barked           oak
or           what           the           grey-           clad           tree
standing           solitary knows

amid misty green, that
Quercus specimen is
a quiet architecture built
through adding rings at
each season, day and night
nourished by sun and soil, by
time and rain—under a canopy of stars

Silence.
Smooth, glassy reflection.
Ripples
Peace.
Wind
Whispers darting back and forth
Be quiet, careful.

Suddenly
A thunderous crash
As a watery hand slaps the surface of the beach,
Sand soaring in all directions
Tumbling
Scuttling
Swept out to sea.

Silence again.
Kelp afloat
Bunching together
Drifting
Tendrils spreading, tangling, entwining
Whorls of fish this way and that
Alert, they swirl and
Churn.

A roar
As the driftwood slams the sand
As the kelp swarm washes ashore
As the ocean recedes, hissing dangerously.
The sun dries the seaweed
The sun warms the sand
The ocean is quiet.

Silence.
A splash.
Silence.
A howl.
Silence.

Back and forth,
Ebb and flow,
Slow and fast,
Harmony to discord,
Peace to violence
And back again.