Being amazed helps when hunting story.

On All Fours

When walking home from school

I ask my quiet son—five—why

Monkeys have two arms, though

Horses have none, but four legs

A long time passes. I am insecure

Why can’t I be the kind of dad who

Raises conversation, raises a child

And not stupid monkey questions?

Then Ben—did I say five?—says

“Monkeys need arms to climb and eat

And horses bend their necks to eat

But need four legs for running fast.”

There, in the distance, five, strong, alert

Speaking with the tongue of men and angels

In his habitat, climbing high with monkeys

Running across his life on all fours

Grandma, this is for you.

Amongst the Frames

Grandma, your photographs from Costa Rica, Santa Monica, Camarillo

Grandma, for Dia de los Muertos.  There you are.

Grandma, your precious young face in the nineteen twenties.

Grandma, at Big Sur in a field of poppies in the sixties.

Grandma, in your seventies, I massaged your boney, toughened back.

Grandma, your mind was strong, but your body—your body Grandma.

Grandma, they took you away in a van.

Grandma, we hiked through canyons at Bryce.

Grandma, through the forests of Olympia.

Grandma, your nicknames for me.  No one knows.

Grandma, all your stories.  You still tell your stories.

Grandma, tell me more about you, how once was for forever.

Grandma, come back once more to bake bread, to teach me.

Grandma, show my son another song on your lap.

Grandma, you are in my dreams.  You told me death was just like life.

Grandma, did it hurt much?  Were you aware we were there?

Grandma, do you speak to us?  Are we listening?

Grandma, are you here now?  Are you whispering, Grandma?

Grandma, do you cook for Grandpa?  Does he practice violin?

Grandma, are your headboards made of gold?  Do you clean house?

Grandma, do you plant zinnias, iris, gladiola, daffodils?

Grandma, does Grandpa miss his white peaches on the porch?

Grandma, do you go on walks with him?  To the beach?

Grandma, I take walks with you.  Through the cemetery.

Grandma, you ride with me on the bus.  You were in the garden.

Grandma, I made a sculpture with wings.  Your mouth was open.

Grandma, you were singing.  You were an angel.

Grandma, everyone is dying.  Everyone.  Your great grandchildren.

Grandma, their baby fingers poke through the blanket that you knit.

Grandma, forever?  Your leaving has made me weep.

Grandma, they don’t know you.  You are amongst the frames.

Acknowledgment. Coming to grips. Wondering.

I’m sure there was more.  There must have been more.


Korea was over.  The fifties ended
There was a marriage [secret/discovered after death]
He built a home in ‘60, they married. Ages 19 and 30

There was hurrying to church, Mom, lipstick, rear view mirror

Swinging for the back alley fence, Dad tossing underhand
Heckle & Jeckle, ice cream days, Berenstien Bears and Mikey

     I’m sure there was more
     There must have been more.

Saturdays, we delivered ads onto doorknobs
While twenty thousand dollars curled up in a jar of peas
In the freezer.  Stubbornness.  Abuse.  In fact, a pistol

And Mom was punished for the food
And sister for the floor.  Brother for the ferns
And I drilled holes into boards

I was seven.  Could not forgive Mom for fifteen years
‘til I learned, “Even donkeys learn from their mistakes”
Squatting in the yard, I wished I was a donkey

That day, 1975, Mom outside classroom door
Paper bag for my things.  No goodbye to Mikey
She’s all red around her eyes, explaining to me

A moving van, Grandma and Grandpa, Joni howling
Left 11162 Gilbert Street, Garden Grove that day
1975, forever.  Then Dad came home to a note

     I’m sure there was more
     There must have been more.

Like immigrants, we left for opportunity. To a new land
Called forgiveness: Camarillo--by a strawberry field
Where days were long, and barefoot, and dust covered it all

The opposite of war.

The Opposite of War

Having read the news online, apprised

In my second story window.  Nothing

But war.  Then, the opposite of war

Watching two and a half miles away

The Rotunda is illuminated through

Winter branches.  It is comely, the only

Dome of granite in our country

It must be cold to the touch

Glowing white with a cool hint of

Orange, or is it green?

I turn out the lights, rise to the window

Study the color.  I see full well

Yet cannot decide.  It began to appear

On the other side of Winter, when

Ten days coaxed down the seasoned

Lofts of painted leaves in warm

Discordant floods of canopies

And now the sticks, the sapless

Arthritic sticks with nothing to hide

Mother-in-Law imagines each stick

With a prayer for Spring

Each stick chewing its knuckles

In nubile angst to suck the juice of earth

Longing to sprout breasts

At the birthday beach party, girls

On towels with goose flesh

And the contemplation of boys

Each limb remembering how blood

Flows from trunk toward sky

Now I see.  The colors glowing

Keeping vigil above the neighborhoods:

They are the colors reflected in late winter

Colors present in nighttime

When we least know of them

When war is unfamiliar

When calm is broadcast in the cold

I'll do what I can

What You Have What I Give


My hands search for you like a ghost in your crib
Find your head, bless your hair over your ear
As you dream in the humid dark, your cheek
Warm like a tamale, rubbery moist, kissed
Cushioned ample, tender plum cheek

You exhausted me, intense one, from your screaming today
You enchanted me, bold son, as you eyed me
Two and a half year old sage; you said,
“Sometimes people don’t like people.”  Sometimes
I squint in the dark, awaiting a lesson you have for me

I give you a future of ten billion people, an empire
In decline, of wars you will own, economies flooded
Environment bedraggled. You will not do as we have
Done.  It’s a small world after all
Is finally sinking in. 

But I’ll do what I can for you, Ben Muir,
Though I cannot see your breathing, my breathing
Fused, your cheek, again kissed,
Cicadas out there, laying waste to the silence
Awaiting a lesson you have for me

scratching dream for children we

scratching dream for children we

I.

i had been born on straight

steely tracks lifting cars slightly

off their chassis as I passed

authentic incubated sensual

swinging sword courageous ripe

glaring-into-the-sun enlightened i

having all i ever wanted

there was never question as to if

i dreamt the world of my i

cannot now look into my own

sorry eyes, for they have seen

square into anguish

II.

scratching out scratching out

a dream for children we

daughter we son we baby

scratch out father’s green scratch

passion humor mother’s heart scratch

our scratch child scratch anguish

hers mine anguish incubated dreamed of

disappeared indulged laughter scratched

piggy back rides poems scratched

scratched out egg clutch of eggs

Dear Egg, where are you hiding, scratching

gently scratching dream for children we

Having children humbles you.

His Flesh, My Flesh

My son was taken to the Principal today.  Twice.

His fists beat upon a boy.  Later, another boy.

One blocked his view of a storybook.

The other wanted back a toy he had grabbed away.

An Incident Report is written up.  I am called.

In the office, he feigns sleep on his preschool cot.

Not a single toy.  Just his hands curled up near his eyes.

His terrible loneliness is redeemable in my loneliness.

His flawless face belies my shadowy insides.

His guts and mine fuse in the torso of solemnity.

We bestow upon our children the haunt of ourselves.

I have given him weapons and the words to load into them.

I have taught him aim, camouflage, how to dig trenches.

I have shown him how to view others as the enemy.

Our wounds scar before their accidents; they become us.

That’s my boy.  On the cot, bewitched, considering his hands,

His flesh, my flesh.