very simple, two good hands

like desert, his hands of dry earth
and callouses. splintered
nails. Ocher and rust,
they match the colours of his neck.
Exposed to the winds and the suns of
many years
standing knee deep in
rubble
hot metal and
the tides.
Each night they shine silver with
residue from fish scales.
thickened by nylon ropes and salt
they've tied knots he
now sits at the kitchen table, idly
twisting into found pieces of string
and rubber bands.
Smelling of soot and fresh wounds
they
line metal, grow weary of the repetition of
a welder's work. Stretch
tense muscles and count
scars.
Firm on the wooden handle
smears of chalk and
sawdust line the cracks. He
comes home
to wash the babies and feed the dogs.
his hands
scabbed and blackened at the knuckles,
He touches their backs and
the children take comfort in their weight.
Warm to hold
an infant's head, and
his wife's smooth plait.
the dense click of fingernail against
tooth
he is thoughtful.
they hold so much weight, these hands
of carbon and sinew.
it is so
very heavy.
it is so
very simple, these
two good
hands.

YOUNG WOLF

I remember cradling your head
cooing; singing your family songs
in a voice not quite confident.
Those big purple/green mountains looking
all bruised and intimidating
deafening
in their volume. Static noise, which
over powered the dusty tapes we played
as we rush past in a little silver
volvo
taking a deep breath to go on to the next verse.

I remember a few chilled October nights
your slight nose painted,
brown for fox
black for tiger
other animals too, i suppose.
straw bale hair
bushing out, almost
as excited as you.

I remember hanging upside down on your couch
 hair, dusting the floor.
Wayne's world 1 and 2 and
two bowls of ice cream because
i wanted you to think i was cool.
Almost sheepishly I took the worn bills from your
mothers hand
shy
to put value on time spent together.

I remember your new sounds
voice low now, like aduki beans
and dry toast.
You wore a nice grey sweater
and I was unsure of the moment you grew taller than me
Did it creep past me?  or maybe it stood proud in front
of me and
I just looked through it. Glassy eyed and back facing the door.

I remember two years ago and shuffling
in the robust kitchen, socks collecting crumbs. I sneaked you downstairs
fed you liquor,
the agave burning our lips as we passed a bottle between
cousins.
Upstairs, pressing thick plastic buttons we left sad messages.
I was too drunk to remember the rest of the games played.
You were too sweet to remind me.

I remember last year. shallow messages sent
into late night grey clouds on black.
your sister and I
we drove
and drove
and drove, something we do. Across empty highways
Your nonsense, tomfoolery. you have such wit
and a golden heart. To aide and abet
navigation
high school
all things made
of salty blue skies
and wind whips.

A WORK IN PROGRESS

Really, I think of our

Autumn:

your ghost face and dying roots. Our love, irreverent.

You left nothing

but your skeleton.

Bones slick

mucous/tissue/blood/alone

to rust.

I picked them up.

Built a fence.

through construction,

they are mine.

Rejoice!

RESPONSIBILITY, UNDERRATED

what if

I chose to forgive.

burrow, to the belly

scoop this

sickness

by the handful.

I think it would

feel like ash

yet, jet black.

Powder everywhere.

I would weep

as I dug.

scraping all the sides,

to remove

every trace

Begging to be washed

free of all the

hurt

and anger, incinerated.

Released.

I guess, I do not always remember

that

it is my own job

to

free my own heart.



THEY WROTE ME BACK

I'll sit on the bus

and feel cold

glass on face

and simultaneously,

a man's deep baritone

rumbling too loud

talking too much, about

Portland.

food trucks, micro brews, and

vegan stripping.

Who cares

about your post-feminist values

shaming and

I remember when I was

drunk and applying for jobs

as a dancer.

Also shaming.



THEY COME IN THREES

1.

I swallow this thought

wet, and thick,

like an eel.

oh! (your sweet slumber)

you do not deserve

me

 

 

2.

As the drones must be

driven from the hive, come

winter, so too must

you

 

 

3.

I wonder, how many times

will I have to learn

the lesson; just

because a fruit falls from the tree,

does not mean it is

sweet.

I CARRY THE WEIGHT

I have plans to

 make plans

(lists of lists to write.)

weary of their cultivation, ideas sown in the soil 

they are fed acrid resentment
and only brief sparks 

of lucidity.

I look at your feet shuffling

a rhythm.

I meet you there.

Patterns must be dismantled
 bit,

by bit.

Fingers busy.

teeth chew on lips, hungrily,

anxiously.

yet pulse
is no where to be found.