TERMINAL

Susy can still blink
one for yes
two for no

her older brother shakes the wheelchair
to wake her for news and photos of
my 8 year old son and new love
her head lolls
he wipes the corners of her mouth

his wife eats her salad
chats about diaper changes
and disappointment
the latest decline, short-term memory loss
while my voice brings the remnants of a smile to her lips

I kiss her dry forehead, rub her feet contracted en pointe, a dancer’s pose
her hands fall gracefully across the magazine in her lap, “fancy weekend getaways”
we joke, her caregivers and I, as she slips in and out of sleep

I tell her I will meet her here again
when they return in six months
to fill her pump
her brother says
she looks as if she wants to cry
but I suspect a denser wish

In the last poem
words disintegrate.
Soft dust of brown
moth wing. Fragment.

Ruined remnants of a doric
column. Expectant, with
the crowded mind of
the often observed.

It stalls at the exit, lingers, asks
one last how before it wafts into
holographic robes of yet to be. Then,
as the door eases on brass hinges, laughs

backwards, recites itself
and breaks.

mist pervades as I travel
in a right brain time warp

big picture forests and piles
of dead grass manifest

a soon to be demolished shed
smells vaguely of natural gas

old tools rust: vice grips, drill bits
and exacto-knives gather dust

it feels like I am dating my own life
colorless dead selves emerge

I carry them toward the brink of cognition
lay them on an imaginary stage

floats out but not
as the little man other
caretakers saw standing
in the mirror above the metal
sink late at night

the last breath, or rasp
bile heaved dark and acrid
the end

later, good death
Muktananda’s impression
blue wool cap in hand
image of dance, out
breath stilled

Such a solid, grounded
number. A real chunk
of time. Not some wafty
little fragment floating
past. Ten. And still

pain resurfaces
as absence echoes. How
we live between two
worlds. How the wind
throws it’s whisper
across the low chimes
on my deck.

Blessed spirit, beloved by those he touched

because so much
ensues untimely
find a consummate plot

suspect truth

remember evils loosed
from Pandora’s box
dull ache where Hope perched

submit to scrutiny

choose Indian black
granite rectangle slab
abide cemetery rules

italicized Roman font
Jewish star
epitaph to etch in

forever

the dead just keep being dead
and Sharon, blue like Rama
a flame in a tango dress
smiles in and out
of our minds

her seductive manner
the pony she rode
in Turkey as a child
jewels and boys stolen
from her only daughter
a drink on the dock
in Tennessee

those sapphire eyes
glint across these broken
hearts these multi-exposed
hearts bleeding so long

for PT

my friend has turned
canary yellow
a fragile whisper

I hang rose quartz around
her neck, pop malted milk balls
into our mouths

across the years this cactus grower
psychic suggested a bone knife
to YES paste collected imagery

a rubber roller to Modge Podge over
collage on a plexiglass
plate and gifted me the lilt of her laugh

metallic Mardi Gras beads
dangle in her stamped photos as we sipped
homemade pear and anise liqueurs

here, behind the plaid curtain
I tape an abstract post-card
to the metal arm of her bed

slip a pillow under her gaunt knees
find a cup for the jasmine I’ve stolen
to brighten this hospice corner

light vapors float out
a dying nova wanes

each poem sinks toward
blurred vision asks
what more can we do

he stays his course
in the large leather chair
swallows, listens

once in a while a voice
rises from the ashes
entreats us

break open narrative
let language fly

colloquialisms don’t go over well
talk to you later and the forlorn all
sit on a stoop waiting for their non-
emergent mothers in station wagons
devouring time like an overripe plum
forced to stagnate until at least eleven
not even clear on adulthood and the ensuing
responsibility of a bike ride around Oregon

maybe a phone call since we’re heading for an
even denser clod this year but nothing so convenient
as proximity can ease the mad clatter of obsession
that mars the night sky with it’s endless refrain look
look look and into the dark we stare willingly as if
some brightness would catch hold to startle us out of
this chosen fugue state and a tight clique of stars
shelters a big surprise none of us believe in anymore

hesitancy about honesty inhibits necessary motion
a flicker of rose candle in the childhood corner proposes
faith that baneful endings can have a toxic effect which
would wreck the vision of a real balcony scene replete with
ripe kiwi and silk garments something akin to forever but
without the emphasis on death or even passion as these are
remnants of someone else’s nightmare and not the true colors
deemed relevant if pursuit and soft skin can tolerate so long

it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete

my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk

it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge

She sat cross legged
On the lambskin rug
Her grandparents brought
From New Zeland
When she was six