Long-last unto the horizon, black and gone;
though mottled with stars, each blazing pure bright,
this winter is cold. Dawn is distant, blurred,
folded at the end of the evening. A horn is heard,
racing, a long ship carrying loads of light,
and in it—you, although away, may sleep
unknowing. Might each snow-snug tree
melt soft and seep your small thoughts of me:
a warmth to which we will both be drawn.
I will ease the car
into its rightful place
and wrest the pace from the day
to call it my own again. And I’ll look up
to see us, now:
we are washing dishes after work
as though the whole of beauty rested
in the collarbones of cups.
You, framed in the light of windows—
old light through living glass.
You, my love, a familiar trail
to a place I’ve not yet been.
We will greet each other at the door
to make a home of the kindness we are given.
And the kids will come downstairs
from faraway castles
to say hello and embrace their fathers;
a suit of armor
too big for a boy.
They will remember waking up
earlier than Dad—Christmas morning.
They will remember walking alone
on the highway—the stars
before the cars backed up.
And we will go to bed that night,
laying heads and arms to tumble
like river stones until morning.
Your rolling breaths will cast about,
green and blue, as shadows—
they sing hymns to my chest
until I awake.
And here again, I find us:
we are standing
in the bright late-morning sun.
You are speaking
and I am beginning
to learn the words.
We travelled together
through time and space
and back before bed,
after brushing our teeth.
When you would go to sleep,
I would turn the pages
to the parts you had not read,
pretending not to know
that I was getting older;
the universe unfolded.
Mom died with the Lakefield wind at her back.
She was ninety one years old
and she sang her way into the future
over the storm of a century,
and the chapel she built with a few syllables
made father bend down
and kiss the ground she swept.
They took a taxi into the city,
got dinner but missed the movie.
Genghis Khan wept into his popcorn and
Frank O'Hara slept next to a woman
who looked like his mother.
Nobody bothered to stay settled
in the time and place they were born.
Instead, they went elsewhere because
where else could they be steady and warm and find
those fatal notes
tucked behind their ears,
cigarettes like cigars and
songbirds like greyhounds
with their ears tucked back
and their leather shoes glistening with sweat.
The wind carried voices
to us from the water:
friends we had not seen in ages,
calling up from the cove below.
We saw faces marred by salt and age
break into crooked smiles
among the waves.
Later, we gathered in your living room.
Your father's brother picked up a guitar
he had found in the corner.
He played the life out of those strings
with his barrelman's hands.
Quietly, he shook light into the room—
fading light, soft-sound
reflected light—
I forgave myself
for the tears that came.
In that moment,
I wanted to know what you would say
had you been there to see
how life goes on.
I wanted you to say what you always said
when I was little
and I felt lost:
Oh little heart's ease
great grand new
come to life in the spring.
One last time, I wanted to say hello
and I miss
and I love.