Barbara Joan Tiger Bass

untested cough
and ague subside
while somewhere else
an aged woman coughs
into thin air

she is still my mother
even as isolation
deprives our shared breath
even as my voice weakens
against the strain of distance

it is the echo
of myself I want
to talk to
now out
of the ashes
to tell me
how this story-frond
unfurls

replicated boys
gather over and over
brotherly lovely

grief stilled
in peripheral urns
boxed and bound

banter ricochets
across rooms
or via satellite

everyone ends up
laughing at the same
songs the winning score

when my tall son smiled
near the end of his season
after another 3 points

years of bleachers
hidden sorrows
grave visits mellowed

tell her she knew
how to grow into
this future self

let her in on a secret
the story is easy
follow the path

the poem starts after the walk, while we’re rinsing
the red brown mud from E’s black suede tennis shoes
under the spigot, at the top of the East Ridge trail
and the water was so damned cold, and E, barefoot
and cranky, was pouting in the backseat of the Honda

did we notice the Eucalyptus smells, squish
of mud underfoot, and the Redwood trees?
did we listen to the rivulets streaming down the path
as we stepped across in avoidant measure? and as my son,
bright blue signal in petulant distress lagged behind us
or careened ahead, eight year old self intent on exclusion
did we note the crisp clarity, the shimmer of winter sun?

later, as the tantrum mounted and his mighty boyhood
dead father’s sword in one hand, small pointed knife
acquired on a Quito foray, gripped in his still pryable palm,
did we taste that bitter coffee on our breath? and as I led him
into the steaming shower, washed him with watermelon shampoo
and reassured him that he was safe, that I was not leaving, even
in love outside his known realm, did we feel the heat rising?

when sunset hit the sky out my bedroom window and you kissed
years of tear tracks off of my glowing cheeks, when you invited E
upstairs to see the pink and orange range, that redwood forest walk
with all its delicious mud and power took hold, stationed itself
in my heart and I leaned into you

she transcends
in order to awaken
in order to accept
take in, subscribe to
the bitter tea, the remedy
for her conjoined history
at once logic and fantasy
the tall clock ticks and a gentle
grandmotherly ghost
purses her lips

it’s not time she wants to alter
not the way she can float
up and down the aisles
of the open market, fresh kale
and plump radishes in her blue bag
free samples of sweet dried peach
lingering on her tongue
she likes, appreciates, admires, enjoys
thrills at, relishes the wafted hours

but the rational realm
must also endure
what to cook each night
and when to fold the laundry
these tasks conflict with imagery
there is nothing symbolic about
the crease in his pant leg, the folded
towels left strewn on a sofa
the crimson roses bleeding out
of their vase

she musters her memory, recalls
the rise and fall of her once supple
frame, the imaginary ecstasy
of what appeared true and trims
the ends of the tulips, replaces
the roses with wide open purple
orange, purple, orange
allows their cellulose stems
into her day

caught between
very old love
and what most recently left
guilty in the face of death

transparent certainty
that an adolescent romance
colored everything
until 27 years later

on a quest
for fundamental order
amidst residual grief
that over tired sentiment

the first glance
of self completion

the message came after
my child was safe in bed

last seen dashing down the street
without his backpack

no wallet, no jacket, no cell phone
only 13, with bad grades and angst

some childless neighbors referred to him
as “bubble boy” and said he seemed a loner

best known among the younger crowd
as the one with fireworks on 4th of July

into the night men searched with flashlights
under the electric towers, in the ravine

women phoned each other, sighed, spread
the word, listened toward the emptiness

police presence was on
the case, missing child alert

late in the rain his French teacher spied him
on an overpass, wet and tired from a night in a shack

in a thank you message from his dad, relief careened
off his voice into the chicken soup bubbling in my kitchen

usurped of sensate self
she slept away
from adulthood

unaware of time
she avoided the onus
of labor

childishly wild
she masked her surprise
at menses blood

raped by neglect
she hid under beds
swallowed their secrets

frightened by talons
she shied from confession
veered off the stage

sensitive to touch
she cramped
onto the speculum

clouded by loss
she buried her essence
in slanted cursive

emptied of faith
she accompanied sterility
rode shot-gun across borders

shattered by loss
she appeared explicit
cracked her chewed gum

implanted with hope
she rejoiced at potential
bought into permanence

confounded by pain
she thwarted commitment
clung to stagnation

awestruck by delicacy
she cradled the future
fed into the code

humored by denial
she wrangled expectations
loosened her tresses

stricken by departure
she tallied her prospects
strengthened her core

sullied by longing
she abandoned ambivalence
dove into the ocean

warmed by security
she opened her chambers
catalogued symbols

awakened on purpose
she let go of youth
leaned into language