Freddy's brother

It was Freddy’s brother who had died
and we weren’t even sure of his name
because he wasn’t Catholic and we were.
But we
did attend the funeral in a dark, open,
empty church and sat in the back and
when it came time to kneel or stand,
mother told us to stay seated, to pray
from there, because he wasn’t Catholic
and we were.
And it not only seemed odd,
but it seemed wrong, but I stayed seated,
too, and to this day
I wish I’d not.

2 jewish

The call came early Thanksgiving morning
and her voice sounded desperate and his first
thought was that something had happened
to the baby and she said no, no, no, that the
baby was fine, but his name
was
not.
10 hours east, her parents and those else had decided, as all but her and her
husband gathered for a holiday meal, that the
name
was
too
Jewish.
Abraham.
One of the early names of honor and
leadership was
too
Jewish. As it turned out, they resorted to calling him
“Rusty,” but his father thought “Fuck that,” and
did the only thing he could think of: purchased a “My Name is Abraham”
t-shirt, rather, had it made, for none were currently
available, and
he dressed the boy for
the next visit.
Too Jewish.
Imagine
that.
Abraham.
My name
is.

mother

She carried a secret so tightly
that it slowly choked the life out of
her, breath by breath, which was
ironic, because she thought
the only way to stay alive was
to keep everything hidden away,
inside, deep, deep inside.
It was difficult watching her die
for all those years, decades, really, though sometimes
we weren’t so keenly aware of it, maybe because
we didn’t want to be.
Besides, it wasn’t our job as children
to understand everything, or, before even that,
to unravel what bound up her soul.
She had no last words, none that anyone
could understand. She simply passed from
finally forgetting to release.
At least that’s what we hope.

denny

The call came late, in the quiet, in the
bleak before the break, and her voice was a
whisper that woke something in the back of his
mind, startled it awake, followed by a silence, for
a moment that felt too much longer.
She said: “Denny is lost at sea,” and he wanted
to ask, “How?” but he knew the answer to that,
how friends he knew and those he didn’t got
“lost at sea.” It happened all the time, except
it didn’t, too, and he has lived for 35 years with
the image of a friend desperately trying to live,
in the dark and swirling deep, fighting
against his fate. It’s never a
nightmare, though, for it’s not nightmarish. Indeed,
there is a measure of
peace to it all, it ending, that way, oddly enough.
More than that, it was just
a fact of life that became a figure in the safety log:
“Lt. Dennis O'Malley: lost at sea.”
"We launch tomorrow, at six!"

liza

They climbed onto rockets and launched
themselves into the blue because they were
young and patriotic and because it was heroic,
and because Liza, the waitress everyone lusted after
at the Blue Oyster, the waitress everyone was trying
to save from the Blue Oyster,
thought they were sexy and brilliant, even while she went home,
every night to a UPS driver, who wore brown
shorts and high brown socks and knocked her around a bit, and fucked his brains
out – or so they thought.
And that’s why they did it – for her and for women like
her, and the chickens didn’t really come home
to roost until what was left of Wally that cool,
autumn day in Kansas was shoveled into
a body bag, fire-proof flight suit intact with
his ashes and wedding ring. But even then, a few pops and
everyone was good to go, again, “Shit hot,”
again. That’s the way it was. That’s the way
it always was. And, by the way, Liza wasn't worth
dying for, they figured out. Some,
too
late.

it IS what you say

Have you ever wondered who you’ll call for
when your time to call for comes?
Your mother? Father? A wife? Husband?
Or a friend or … lover. Or a child – and
which one, now?
And
when you say what’s needed to be
said, what will the others think? The
ones you ignored, for that’s what they might
feel, that slighting.
And should you worry about
that?
Is it too soon to think about that whom, because
you never know about the when, though
it certainly is closer than ever, isn’t it, now?
And
can you imprint in your subconscious
who the who should be, ahead of time?
Suddenly the deathbed becomes
a bit more difficult, eh?

deserted

there is a solace to the solitude and
there is an aloneness that makes being alone
good and true,
rather
than
sad and
lonely.
no expectations.
no schedules.
no race to get from there
to here –
and back.
for one thing, it’s too, too hot for all
that hurrying and worrying;
for another, it’s just
the
way
things
are.
in the desert, where life can be seen
inside out,
if you are
willing to stop and look and if
you are willing to stand
the
peace and
quiet. can
you? or do you just think
you
can?