There is a tremendous amount of ‘seeing -to’ that our male counterparts never
experience.
The terrifying and sacred moments of intimacy that daughters endure and
subsequently cherish; the anointment into womanhood with the blood of
our predecessors.
My cousin, James, was steadfast and sensitive, concerned and sweet, always.
“It is hard to see Nan like this”, he confided in me on the porch, turning his head from
the May sun and my eyes.
I nodded, “I know, bud.”
And I did know.
I knew the tenacity it required to even kiss my grandmother hello without weeping.
To his credit, I have seen James carry an infant’s coffin on his nineteen year old
shoulder, and that is a weight which I will never know.
He will never know the weight of caring for someone,
the ache of being the maker of meeting ends,
the reader of omens and omissions.… ...continue reading
I reply it was a storybook childhood no not as in Princess Bride
just money enough for food piano lessons a dog new clothes
a yearly vacation that kind of thing and naturally there were
the few times in the middle of dinner my mother drew a knife
from the drawer in order to end herself but I don’t remember
those well maybe not at all though I do recall the shininess
and little points yes serrations I later learned and my father
with his hands out in a stop stop and and also a more than
usual problem in getting our broccoli down the three of us
wide-eyed in steakus interruptus and the dog sniffing terror
a bit less tantalizing than snippets of scrap cushioning himself
suddenly in a collective unconscious of couch our father still
pleading no please let’s just … there that’s good just smile
and pass the ketchup and it was over until the next time
going smoothly to cleanup with the floor vacuum
and its wicked wonderful sound signifying another meal
successfully ingested and popcorn on the way the machines
so comforting being in the end all under her control
one night bleeding into the next and in the morning the usual
coffee aroma the dark savior awakened from slumber in the
cupboard all night long above the you-know drawer and off
to school with us after the first cup and then on to all the rest
it was quite full that pot so I knew what she was doing as I boarded
the bus and undid my locker chatting away on a storybook day
never thinking what might happen if she jumped suddenly to grab
the phone and spilled the coffee one doesn’t in retrospect think
that far ahead or behind and truth is anything can be part of
anything like the tiny reflections and refractions dancing like
so many gemstones right there in a kitchen in storybook suburbs
where a woman who wants to die lives the same day over and again
for decades as there are rules so she swallows them like bitter beans
and gets on with fixing beds and tossing laundry and now
she lives and thrives and my father relaxed now
his hands clasped as with some cherished book
upon the chest his final chapter gasped long long ago.… ...continue reading
“My father was born on this day,
Though I know not the year,
I have never committed my name to a birthday card for my father,
Nor did he elect to commit his name to me.
I have compiled a concise collection of facts:
As modest as a grocery list,
As neutral as bread or jam.
His brother’s name is Martin.
his penmanship was a tragedy.
In my possession are two photographs,
Taken from a distance and an odd angle,
But still I see the strange, striking resemblance,
and it is striking to resemble a stranger.”
– Kate Healey… ...continue reading
I was there, a witness, saw the long-haired holy man
perform miracles in between ranting and raving.
Who cares if he smells like sheep, when one wave
of a scarred hand can bring a bus after I’ve been
waiting half an hour. Or a half-hissed prayer through
rotting teeth can provide a beautiful young woman
in a slinky red dress, also going the same way.
And what a phenomenon he has produced with
just the twist of a blood-shot eye, the squirreling
of a red nose… I have exact change and she does too.
So it really doesn’t matter that he speaks in a language
neither of us understand or that the Bible in his hand is
so battered, so dog-eared, that it begins with Psalms
and 1 Corinthians must do for Revelations.… ...continue reading
Before she wants to leave, life goes.
She dies a shrinking death.
Alone, asleep, no one comes close.
A tube gives her last breath.
One more walk, more vitamins, more pain
and she’d be here still— alive.
But every healthy act in vain.
Her wish: do not revive.
A quiet explosion scorched her cells.
Dividing tumor, too fast.
Her lips like broken shells
and face a sunken mask.
Hair gone and shivering in the sun
her skin as smooth as stone
she said, “Though chemo was fun,
I’m ready to be gone.”
Her lover on a plastic chair,
his hand strokes paper skin.
He’d fight to death if he could scare
the tumor from within.
One more walk, more vitamins, more pain
and she’d be here still— alive.… ...continue reading
Consider the embryo.
—no limbs at first, oval,
translucent, watery comma
—not a sapling stick,
more, its rain-soaked seed.
You said they were all boys,
—-those minuscule dead possibilities
swirling in a dark dysfunctional womb.
—They had to be,
as females are stronger.
Not quite convinced,
—-I dreamed pink party dresses,
tutus, first solo rides
—–on two wheels, giddy swimmers
adoring the ocean, sun, sand.
—I saw castle upon castle.
The first “birthed” in the john.
—-We looked for something with which
to fish it (him?) out – hospital’s orders.
Human, they said, and stuck me in a hallway
—-to bleed alone for half a day.
The second time, my mother visited,
—–but was uncomfortable with such despair,
———could not gather herself
fully into a chair.… ...continue reading
There is a profound depth to you,
your irises ebb out towards me,
from above those arrow head cheekbones,
sublime in their listlessness,
infinitely vast and achingly familiar.
Swaddling my head,
like smoke levitating against the ceiling, is your voice.
A voice like bourbon,
encompassing my ear drums.
Obliviously I gravitate towards you,
only to be disarmed and overwhelmed
by the visceral reaction I have to you,
and the fragility of our connection,
the absolute complementary juxtaposition we constantly demonstrate is aweinducing.
Formally I know nothing of you,
but I know your soul so well,
for it is a fragment of my own,
splintered from the the continuum of consciousness,
a relic from a past life that I am certain that we shared.
– Kate Healey… ...continue reading