Bait

After it rained the other night
getting in the car
taking the boys to school
stepping from curb to street
over the gutter with water still flowing
Lang noticed several worms
squiggling like fish squirming
as if asking to be bait
which he wanted to collect them for
save them in a jar
Where would you keep them
in the fridge
until Saturday and then
to the jetty.

But we had to go
get bagel sandwiches before the bell rang
and Jax scoffed at the fridge idea
said Come ON Lang let's GO
so the boys scuffed into their seats
crossed their chests
safety belts like a talisman, a blessing
to keep them safe
until they get to school

where everyone is safe

Meanwhile those worms
probably didn't make it back up to the lawn
since the waiting crows
winged down in my rear view mirror
from perches closer to heaven
black in the treetops
patient as night
whispering as they descended
with open beaks

it's never safe

Kiliminjaro

I'm going to stumble through
all the tense verbs, imperfect
simple future present past

There, floating, hanging
like ducks in Chinatown, every word
dead, waiting to be chewed, spit, shit

Sometimes I turn on the foreign language channels
to see if I can lip read
any better

It rained no it didn't
so much as cascade, proverbial buckets,
adjectives, nouns, adverbs insufficient for the torrent
on Kiliminjaro's flanks
post-climb, all 20 miles down from the highest huts
where I'd left my red guts
back to base camp in a single running descent
to keep the jelly in my skull from exploding.
We walked beneath the canopy, all I remember
is brown mud, brown bark, slate wet, a green leaf wall,
black shadow, tan thatch, charcoal shadowed doorways
silence silken as falling water
(learning that Gore-tex was no match for this rain)

and then a hand reached out
beckoning us out of the deluge
into the smoky cool beneath a thatch cone
while on the brazier fire, sized like an old Folgers' can
fire is the wrong word, it was much more efficient
a pot, a ladle, some words
they were speaking some words
perhaps Swahili. Jeannette tried French
once English got the head shake
and a bowl was offered, accepted.
We sipped. How many faces were there?

If there is shame, it's that I don't recall
who these people were, how many, their names and faces,
we were the strangers with shoes
and coats that cost a year's pay locally
but still couldn't keep out the rain
yet still swept in, sustained with a smile,
shared with

they would not accept our paper money
as the sky slipped away.

5, 10, 15

It's this
week again, where we lose
time and people
every year the same
loss

5, 10, 15:

the 5th was Roberto spinning off the earth
into the ditch when the square inch of bike tire
no longer hugged the road
and his brother Carl's arms
couldn't hug life in

the 10th was Caleigh not quite seeing light
stuck as she was by the midwife's needle
when we trusted not knowing Lori
kept fear loaded in the syringe

she would have been 15 this year
maybe she's wearing a quinceanera dress
decked out in rhinestone
stars pulled from heaven

I don't quite know what to do
with the quiet
echo of his laugh
and the hanging moment
when the doppler was silent
5, 10, 15 seconds, no heartbeats

no heartbeats after

Thunder haikus

Kisses on eyelids
like raindrops, more, many more
kisses like wet stars


The sky groans, so long
since last released, dripping wet
flashing everyone


After the rain, who falls?
Gods, men, angels and devils?
What grows, what comes next?


She moves off, thunder
in the far, like god or love
faint ghostly echoes


Today, someone leaves
to thunder, arcs light the way
while others arrive


If thunder brought you
kisses like yesterday's rain
would you recall me?


Lightning rainbow pure
white fills the sky, letting loose
liquid thunder tears


The gods roll big dice
close at hand, while the losers
weep for lost chances

Space

I try to imagine all the space
she would have grown into
pink baby shoes, leotards, size 6 heels
the depression
in her chair from sitting
liters of sports drink, drunk post-soccer
hair clips, shampoo bottles, ear plugs

my hands are still
empty, a few seconds of seven pounds
nearly fifteen sun circuits since
and I yet wonder
what words would have filled the space
when I tucked her in at night

Wet

I was born wet
as were you
drunk on our mother
her belly, her
eyes, lips, nipples
her guts, her brave

and then the air came
light crinkled us
then as now wrinkles us
as we squeeze in, ex
hale means healthy
but still wet
but how many are still
couer

It was in a movie
we found her
heart
a wet mouthed
twenty seconds of courage
I'll forget
tomorrow

today
I'll toast
being all wet and air
finding courage
every twenty
every seconds

Three

They say memory is three
quarters smell
so for every remembered touch
for each ringing note, fallen silent
three scents must be attached.

All these photos must have changed things.
All these images must have taken
up the space where my nose would have stored
yesterday. Maybe it's only my brain
that forgets, maybe everyone else's works

that way. I had pneumonia at 19
and couldn't smell anything for a year
I didn't know if it had gone on holiday
or moved to another country
without so much as a Dear John letter

until, like a scratch-and-sniff postcard
walking past a street person on Telegraph Avenue
the pungent stench of ammonia startled me, for weeks
I stuck my nose into roses and bougainvillea
but got only thorns for my trouble.

Suddenly, acrid eucalyptus from the wildfire
fresh cut onions, frying
fresh baked bread
espresso
smell had returned.

I hope he had fun on vacation
and sauteed mushroom butter, rolled in rose petals,
cranked peppercorns, stomped grapes at harvest
all with his eyes closed
and his ears shut.

Maybe it's not memory
but imagination, and that's why there's no scent.
Were I to lose sense again
not fairness, or balance, or curiosity
and definitely not imagination

so even if I forget what love smells like
I can fill up the rest
with my eyes closed
and I'll still remember
you