My father spins tales from water vapor:

Tall, lanky boys who disappear into holes in the ground;

Chestnut colored men with horn-rimmed glasses and

Pink Converse, who roamed Wachusett.

For years I skirted manholes,

Peeked behind trees, walked forests in search of something

Tangible of his words

Steam curling around my tongue,

Retelling the stories he told us, my sister and I:

Will O’ the Wisp, Hugo Darodius

Iron grates were never walked upon,

Like handicap signs and sidewalk cracks,

Lest my father’s legacy slip through them,

We slip on their cold metal and fall

Losing him in the sweet, slimy underbelly

Home to men who live Underground,

Like apples, too sweet for eating,

We fear biting may too irrevocably mar their perfection

Apples remind me of Robert Frost,

Like Birches, winters in New England, ice storms

You quote, speaking with passion

Of these things, recite:

“Conjuring spirits isn’t button button, who’s got the button”

Spilled over with the off-runnings of spring, basements and

sewing bags full of finger bones make me think of witches and Indians.

You told us that home was someplace you would always

Let us in

You, my little boy, spending cold nights on worn couches

I wake and see your blanket there,

Your calling card

We speak in tell-tale signs, transcend the clumsiness of words,

Old stutterer, I see no need for the sounds our mouths make.

I see the warmth it pulled from you,

The sad frayed edges, the deep nighttime

Insomnias you gave to it,

To let me know you suffered.

Asking would be blasphemy

This is home, we are both where we belong. 

I would know you were not perfect.

My old man,

I could smooth the waves that line

Your old face, the consistency of smooth,

freckled taffy

I could touch your skin and know the hardness I

Imagine is gone, has left piece by piece.

You are my shell, my wonderful façade

Remain as you are, old man.

We will make each other a promise:

I will skirt manholes, lest you fall with me

And your words may disappear, a tall lanky boy

With glasses come up for air and leave me

With nothing to fear of gaping holes in the ground

Where you and Morlocks may dwell.

My pink-shoed sprite, I will find him when you leave

Wandering, lost from the aesthetic of your voice

And she said, “I think.”  The things I’ll

always remember – the rolling tongue,

the breathing sky, and my, my wonder

that she thought this way of me.  I was

falling asleep in bed and waking up

in heaven, talking to eternity.  The pristine

applauded me, and my purity.  Or maybe they

were the Pharisees and appreciated my vanity

and my gluttony hoarding miles of you away

for me.  I think I’ve had my fill, in these

hours we’ve been here, gorging on mutual

narcissism, cynicism.  It’s made me dull and

slow-witted, you see.  If my answers don’t

come quickly, if I seem to falter in my

speech, the words don’t reach because I

won’t emit them, won’t commit to the sound

of them – it’s because I’m afraid I’ve lost

my surety, it got away from me.  I’ve come afraid

of life’s complexities, my mind fails to hear

the melodies in her voice, and I couldn’t remember

what she said. 

Words metamorphose from time to

time, in the insubstantial cotton of our minds.

Like the fabric of my sheets turn to gold

as I shut my eyes.  And I can’t see reality,

only the inside of me...

And she said, “I could do this forever”,

while my mouth smiled and I whiled

the seconds until I could leave.  Forever is not

eternity, only something we’ve made up,

you see, nothing could last that long, my

forever is how long this conversation’s gonna take.

When we end, I’ll let you know

how the Apocalypse turned out.  What Bonnie

Tyler is talking about.  Forever ain’t gonna start

tonight – forever is going to end in approximately

three minutes; when you close your mouth, and

I open my mind. 

Do you mind that I’m falling asleep in bed

and waking up in heaven while you profess

along side me?  She said, “We are the builders of

the next eternity,” and my head is where my heart

should be.  And my head is where my heart should be,

and my head is where my heart should be.  And we’ll

be hard things tomorrow.

Little Sister 

She's late again.
I'm waiting up for her.
Minutes tick like
drops of water
r o l l i n g
down glass window.
Squeak, slide, squeak
Momma's shoes as she
walks back and forth and
back across
green speckled linoleum
Daddy's eyes pools of grey
water after storm and body stiff
absolutely dead.

Door opens
She bursts and
Momma is a siren
wailing, screaming, whining.
She is electric
words racecars rushing
sorry sorry sorry lost track of time sorry
words pass over Momma like
metal, sliding off
I think I am invisible but
red, half-closed eyes
see me stand there
Daddy says go to bed
Go to bed--don't need you here.

Curled up like a horseshoe
in my bed, I still hear
voices
voices rising falling
racing slowing down
like cars on highway
I lay there, pull
pink daisies up over
my shoulders to keep from
being too cold
Poster swishes to the floor
as door opens I see her face
broken and mismatched
like a Van Gogh.
There is nothing left
but knife sharpened
ready
needing to be used and
dulled and slowly
put away.
Silently I tense
willing to be
killed tonight
watching her body--white
harsh as dulled ivory
her eyes glazed and green
like linoleum.

She undresses slowly
each movement makes stillness
like being caught in an
elevator with too many people.
You're beautiful I whisper
quiet like gust of wind awakening
her linoleum eyes
clinch mine like chains
clink so loud
in my ears I have to grab
my head.
Hard linoleum eyes kill me
mixed with words
Why aren't your clothes off the floor?
Why are you so stupid?
Why can't you do anything right?

They kill me again and again
until knife is dull
linoleum eyes are wet
beginning to close until
a rag doll she falls on daisy sheets
knife put away.

My lips curve eyes sparkle
stomach feels like chains broken
roses after rain.
Like a graveyard I lay
listening listening listening
to her breathing
until my eyes
shut.