And you are…?

Liked it better when they all wore white.

Coats or smocks, didn’t matter. But white.

Seeing nurses in colors set him off a little.

Like nuns in jeans, an order was upset.

Whoever said blue or plum were less stressful didn’t account for this one

With a smart patterned blouse and bright red nails.

And you had…she looked at the laptop she carried lovingly in the crook of her arm…

Rectal bleeding, was it?

What? No! I didn’t…

It says here that you did.

I would remember.

But…she squinted at the screen…

You are Delores Sierra are you not?

No. I’m Raymond Dugan.

Birthdate?

3-19-62.

No, that’s not right.

It’s my birthday. I would know.

You’d be surprised, she said.

He stared holes into the side of the face

Staring at the screen for answers.

My old man would have slapped her by now and walked out, he thought.

Or, closer to the end, pissed on her desk or shit himself;

Just to show her.

Which would have been wrong.

Definitely wrong.

If you’ll give me a moment Mrs. Sierra…

But still…

February Rain

I don’t think I’ll live through this,

He told his friend as they watched the cold rain

Glisten under the oversized fluorescents outside the window.

What?

Life.

A car pulled up to the service island dinging the bell.

His friend pulled on gloves and headed for the door.

May there never come a time when you say that with relief

Instead of dread, he said with a wink as he ducked out into the weather.

Braising

 

The hard work was done.
Hidden by the night's blanket-
Drowned out by barking dogs and passing coal trains
That shook the building.

The Osso Buco was my idea.
It was his favorite-
Something his family wouldn't have known.
Expecting fried chicken and hot sausage
They looked at me like I was crazy.

So I braised all night, 
Reliving old conversations to file away-
For later.
I could have been with him that night.
Doesn't mean I should have. 
He wouldn't begrudge me still being here. 
As long as I cooked.

I braised long enough to be sober by dawn.
Nothing to do but stir the sauce and wait
For the set-up crew.

His stool at the end of the bar looked less empty,
Washed by the golden glow leaking through the curtains.
Nobody would begrudge me a beer
After a long night's work. 

Rain

“Mommy, Mommy” he cried,
As best he could
Around the tubes that snaked down his throat
Pumping air into his lungs.

Why “Mommy”? thought his old man
Sitting at the bedside.
He immediately felt horrible for thinking it.
But there it was.

They said it must have been what he was yelling
As he lay on the bottom
Settled among the stoneflies, crayfish and slippery rocks.

Sun shafts sliced their way down to him-
Ladders for mayflies to climb.
But no one could see.
Minnows kept their distance
Snapping at the bubbles that rose.
Fewer now-and tiny.

It seemed too long when one of them
Finally found him-upstream from where they thought-
Gently curled and blue between two rocks
No deeper than six feet.
Traditional grave depth.

When he choked and sputtered-
Gave up the river on the shore
It seemed he would be fine.
That’s what the ambulance driver had said.

But it had been too long.
The nightmare of three days in a backwoods hospital
Only prolonged the agony
And cast shadows of regret and blame
That darkened decades.

The water that poured from the boy’s lungs that day
Flowed to join the North Fork where it sluiced through beaver dams, across gravel bars,
Then down to the Potomac, over the falls, and finally into the Chesapeake;
Across the gills of red fish, through jelly fish then north-
To ride the sun into the clouds and spatter as chill rain on a stony pasture
In the Scottish Highlands.

Big bass still lurk between the rocks where he had lain
So many years ago.
Now they are all gone-buried with their memories, nightmares and torments
While the river is still here. Still everywhere.
And minnows still dart after bubbles
That come from nothing.

Big Pete-A Barroom Epitaph

You hear about Big Pete? The old man asked.
No, what?
He’s not doing too good.

When I knew Big Pete, about ten years ago,
He was over 300 pounds. Probably closer to four.
Football was long behind him.
His ankles looked like telephone poles jammed into sneakers
That he never managed to tie.

He mostly sat-sometimes on two chairs side by side;
Getting up was a production and walking-when he finally got started-
Was a bangy herky-jerk that always seemed just shy
Of throwing all four limbs across the room in opposite directions.
This was when Big Pete was in his thirties-
Doin’ good.

It’ll go like that for a time.
Big Pete? Not doin’ too good.
That little phrase-those four words-covering whatever imaginable
Pain and suffering life finally passed his way.

After a time,
Not doin’ too good takes a decided turn.
Big Pete? He’s dyin’ I hear….

Hear about Big Pete?
Dyin?
Dead.
No more updates.
But dead isn’t where it ends for Big Pete.

It ends with-
Did you hear about Big Pete?
Who?

That’s the end.

 

How do you know when it’s time?

You’re standing there, nude, at the mirror;

Red, scrubbed and powdery fresh from the shower.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed not wearing much.

To me, you look the same as you always did-

Nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spread.

This moment used to lead to others where we would come together,

Slide, slip, push, grunt, scream and collapse.

Again and again.

Now you’re curling your hair telling me what I need to

Pick up at Costco.

(Was I supposed to be taking notes?)

I’m not really listening;

Busy trying to get sports talk through the static on the clock radio.

I let my eyes wander to the fullness of your bottom-imagining the dark secrets enveloped there;

The sleek firmness of your gym-toned legs.

Why imagine? I wonder. You’re right here. Just reach.

Not like I haven’t before.

For a moment I imagine my tongue like a frog’s-

Flicking and diving deeply between your bum-cheeks from over here.

A test.

I asked if you wanted to come back to bed.

We had time, after all.

Your reflection froze and said “Sure, if you want” with the same enthusiasm

Put into listing produce.

“Shhh, wait!” I said, holding up a finger, finally getting the station clearly.

“No, then?” the curling iron high-in a holding pattern.

“I’ll go make coffee”, I said. “It’s getting later…”

“Okay.” You said, getting back to the hair.

“And don’t forget it’s the frozen strawberries we want.

Not the mixed berries you got last time.”

Fall

How did you manage to escape

November’s winnowing?

Knowing that soon you will all swirl

To the winds.

Then-in browns and grays-curl

To the floor.

But for now, for the first time,

You stand alone.

The sole bright spot.

A beacon.

A remembrance of what was,

And a herald of what is to come.

Pray to St. Christopher if you want

We can never tell what’s going to twist us,

What’s going to bend us,

Before it does.

Was it that time in the abandoned apartment

Overlooking the parade?

Nobody remembered that but us.

And you’re gone now-so only me.

Or in the garage much earlier

With the gas and oil smells?

In your story it rates nothing

Not even a memory.

In mine, it’s all there is.

How about later-that quiet spot near the river

Where the logs were lying just so?

I wonder if you still have that mole

Which is all I would think of if I ever saw you again?

If you can look back and see what it was that turned you

Does that make you lucky?

Does seeing it help you to own it?

Or is knowing that it was always there

The only way to grow beyond it?

Drop the cause by the wayside.

You are what you’ve become.

Embrace the texture and keep moving.

Always

Looking up I could see faces above me.

Yours certainly. Maybe others-at least one. Probably more.

But they were your kisses I felt-softly-

Around my lips gently

Then into my mouth-your tongue counting my teeth.

The light in the room was sort of red-maybe purple-

A scarf or something draped over the lamp.

I had chosen the thick black belt tonight with the heavy metal horse buckle

Liking the way it accented my hips and flat belly;

And also the way it made me feel somehow secure and walled off behind it.

It opened easily-you knew how it worked with the latch behind-

And I lifted so that you-whoever-could pull it down along with my jeans.

They were your hands up and down my thighs; your soft touch on the back of my legs.

I don’t remember shifting, or rolling, or being rolled

But then was on my stomach; a position I know well and am comfortable in

Because of the games we play.

I waited for something; a smack, a squeeze, but nothing. That wasn’t the plan.

My jeans slid all the way off my bare feet. Where had my boots gone?

I guess I lifted once more-but maybe not. Didn’t have to

As you pulled my underwear down, then off.

I could almost feel the muted light washing over my bare bottom.

Just hugged the pillow and felt the light sneak deeper as my legs were pulled gently apart.

The bed moved with your weight as I spread wider.

Just relax, you said. But I already knew that.

I gulped breath as a hand-yours?-spread me. It was my favorite part-being exposed like that.

The lube was cool back there and I shivered-though not from the chill.

Your finger spread it and worked it.

I must have mewed a little and pushed back because you shushed me.

You shifted and a hand was on my hip.

Then I felt the hard tension-the press-impossible little poke and jab.

It really wouldn’t fit.  Every time I thought that it wouldn’t fit.

Then a firm, steady unyielding push.

The first pain-the opening burn-lasted only a moment

Replaced then by a complete filling slide that warmed from the center out.

I moaned and this time you said nothing, as I gripped you inside me and

Felt your body cover mine.

I still wish we could have stayed coupled like that.

Always.

Wanderings

“As long as there’s such a thing as time, everybody’s damaged in the end, changed into something else. It always happens sooner or later…But if it happens, you’ve got to have a place you can retrace your steps to…”

Haruki Murakami – “Kafka On The Shore”