Bachelor Uncle
May 5 2010


They will have red-haired children,
who will be called carrot-head
ketchup, pizza-top,
nursing the private hurt
of difference,
the meanness of children in mobs.
And lots,
as their orthodox religion exhorts.

Even I get sentimental at weddings,
how they gaze
into each other’s eyes,
their faith in God
their faith in love
their bone-deep conviction,
despite all the indestructible couples
whose luck ran out.

I am the bachelor uncle
from a distant metropolis
who would also like to believe.
Who wonders
if opposites attract,
and if not, then what are the odds
I’ll ever meet
a female version of me?

This fiery bride
is dynamite, a crackerjack
a real live-wire,
meeting her here
for the very first time.
He twinkles, as well,
but drier, more deliberate.
And so they fit —
weakness for strength,
the same recessive genes.

We fall in love,
rise up
to the alter,
walk hand-in-hand
into life.
Happily ever after
for now.

Their consuming love
is blissful, exalted.
While I think too much
about oxytocin
and dopamine
and logic,
the chemistry of human brains,
of delusion, projection
and faith.

And the fate of the congenital skeptic,
to be alone
in a vast indifferent universe,
which cold astringent reason
has scoured down to bone.

Missing
May 4 2010


The fog was viscous, thick
unpredictable.
It seemed to lift,
speeding through
wispy tendrils of smoke;
then soup, again.
A grey vichyssoise
that tasted like cold adrenaline, clammy sweat
driving blind.

It came on cat’s paws, at night
cutting us off from the world,
smothering us
in warm wet softness.
Tropical air, funnelling up,
an immovable arctic front —
north vs. south,
hot blood
vs. cool and calm.

So when the deer appeared
I could only watch
as he materialized, and was gone.
Like ghosting through
his insubstantial body.
Like driving off
cliff-after-cliff
into fog.

In 30 years
they may find the car
in the bottom of a steep ravine,
or 30 feet
of standing water.
The man who suddenly vanished
for no good reason,
abandoning everyone.

Or maybe not.
Half a second
more, or less,
and no one would ever have noticed.



I was in a rush, driving through early morning for to catch a plane. I’m usually vigilant for deer. This time, I was distracted, and only got a fleeting glimpse: after the fact; a near miss.

Next day, there was a story about an old Chrysler New Yorker found at the bottom of a lake. It contained human remains. Which proved to belong to a 19 year old woman who had mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth some 30 years before. You can imagine the unanswered questions back then: what deep dark secrets had led her to flee? What evil ending had taken her? In the end, of course, it was a wrong turn on a dark night, a momentary miscalculation. …Half a second, more or less.

The “missing” of the title refers to missing persons; to people who unexpectedly disappear, perhaps by accident, perhaps by intention: who take their secrets with them, and go. And also to the barely missed deer: the fleeting intersections of fate and coincidence that end up ruling our lives.

Doing Dishes
April 29 2010


The kitchen, as always
the warmest place in the house.
Hot water
on winter hands,
the sudsy tub, a bubble bath,
a warm emollient.

The window over the sink, steaming-up,
our reflection air-brushed
gone.
In the 40 watt glow, we talk,
two solitudes, softening
in the warmth of soapy water.
Doing dishes
we are easy, unguarded,
confessors, and co-conspirators
repairing the world,
re-inventing ourselves,
being of help.

Perhaps it’s that all the real work is done,
so time no longer rules.
Or the intimacy of steam, and heat,
the comforting sound
of running water.
Or could it be order
restored,
quiet, cooperative, methodical?
The simple virtue
of clean.

Dishes drying on the rack
neatly stacked,
the squeak of glass
rinsed and glistening
pleases me.
There’s the mindless task.
There’s the intimacy of hands
in warmly softened water;
winter skin soothed
faces flushed.

There’s the safety
of this small bright place
in the cold, and darkness.
Where no one overhears us.
Where no one feels judged.

How It All Comes Out
April 23 2010


We laugh it off.
Died in bed,
shot, at 91
by your lover’s jealous husband.
Or hit by a bus
as befits a man so humble
— proletarian, and sudden,
no long decline, no suffering.
Or the maiden jump,
sky-diving
to celebrate your hundredth.
Not for nothing
they call it “terminal velocity”.

All your life
you wonder
how it all comes out.
If you were a whodunit
you could sneak a peak at the ending,
check for sequels.
Or will it be a short story, instead?
A brief intense existence,
with so much left
unresolved, unsaid.
Or a poem, a song, a pledge,
all elegant compression and verse.
Learned by heart,
because remembrance confers
its own version of immortality.

Or perhaps a slogan, a jingle
a curse.
“May you live in interesting times.”
“May you live to a wise old age,
where the greatest burden
is having nothing to bear.”
“May you live so it feels like forever,
with no one to love
or care for.”

You’ve always wanted
to go on living,
and now it’s yours —
the misfortune
to get
exactly what you wished for.