Love Poem
A black biplane crashes through the window of the luncheonette. The pilot climbs down, removing his leather hood. He hands me my grandmother's jade ring. No, it is two robin's eggs and a telephone number: yours.
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Yesterday, against admonishment, my daughter balanced on the couch back, fell and cut her mouth. Because I saw it happen I knew she was not hurt, and yet a child's blood so red it stops a father's heart. My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip. That was the end of it. Round and round: bow and kiss. I try to teach her caution; she tries to teach me risk.
A black biplane crashes through the window of the luncheonette. The pilot climbs down, removing his leather hood. He hands me my grandmother's jade ring. No, it is two robin's eggs and a telephone number: yours.
This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us. No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make. That, and the beloved’s clear instructions: Turn me into song; sing me awake.
A house just like his mother's, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved Lives there now, In that poem He called "My Mother’s House?"
this week’s last load of laundry has me stealing
my son’s precious teenage time I reenact the duty
of my father and what comes hammering back
are trips with him pushing his cart of dirties down
the street his southern charm waving or shaking
hands—: bus driver mailman neighbors get
countless invites to dinner or a Saturday bbq
my father’s good morning darlin’ clanks & pings
as quarters spill into the bona fide grip
of the present my son’s hands show signs
he’s ready for the tedious work ahead as he storms
through pile after pile then his precision when offering
assistance to a stranger this chore becomes a lesson
for the two of us this shared work turns and tumbles
neatly folds—: a fond memory