Dad made breakfast

While I awoke to sweat, stress and a raw heart,
Dad made breakfast in a once-blue bathrobe.

His quiet concentration of prayer and tiredness
were hemispheres to mirror the morning Earth.

He joined ancient Hebrew texts with the American
tradition of employment, then unemployment.

He purified his heart over oatmeal and fruit—
a heart, whole, like a bread advertisement.

Early, I fought brokenness with only cold water.
God forgive my slowness in understanding him.

Ninety-five

"I think I would live to one hundred,
but I've run out of husbands,"
said Grandmother
on the eve of ninety-five.

"Oh, but God gave me good ones,
they never cursed or yelled,
they were good to me.

"On our move, Bill told me
'I'm going to spend the rest
of my life making you happy'
and I just laughed

"that will last three months, I thought
but he sure was a good husband.

"The cigarettes caught up with them.
You know, in my generation,
if you were a man,
and you didn't smoke at thirteen,
you were a sissy.

"It would be something to live
to be one hundred, yes,
they were good men."

The wildflowers

The wildflowers from your wedding strain
from my windowsill to filtered sun.

They grow soft like hair from black soil,
roots contained in peanut butter jars.

You were braided together with rings,
sowing, even in summer, a new plot.

A conversion

My mother cried, my father frowned,
and the living room grew tense and full
like the Tolstoy I sheltered behind
as my brother admitted atheism.

Calgary customs

Calgary customs dissected my heart,
opening handwritten notes
collected in my wallet,

unpacking my clothes, and cycling
through photographs and phone
calls like a gossip.

I was whittled down to my marrow
and brother to a guitarist with
his pockets out too.

The empty airport exhaled when I,
like a stray, limped outside
in search of sanctuary.

White practice jerseys

White practice jerseys and shoulder pads outpaced my
lungs each season and I lagged heavyhearted.

So instead I learned the light patterns of my checkerboard
campus with a camera for companionship,

but black, knit flowers in hovering lace swathed
her dress and me—I never could breathe.

Open air

Grandpa made hot air balloons
from light bulbs and wire.

I imagined them sailing
through the kitchen window.

I too needed an escape
to fresher sky:

he with emphysema,
and I with asthma.

Bread and tea

The girl across the room
absentmindedly
put her arm between her legs,
held her thigh, leaned forward,
and laughed.

I took a bite of bread,
finished my tea,
and left.

Lighthearted #3

Cataloged in your history between your first move
and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume
loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing.

In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh
at the peace we found a couple thousand miles
from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.

I thought the cosmos was born between a dashboard
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.

I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family.

I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered
through the subway window. So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.