In Memory of Steven

I slid under the vine,
crawled leaves dressed me
in beryl coats of Christmas,
your hand around my waist,
pressed me hard against clapboard,
and found the fluttering spine,
a hummingbird caught under palm.

My thighs nested amongst the prickers,
spun nests of lichen and spiderwebs,
begged at our feet,
I could hardly hear them at all.

Slip behind dark tents of hair,
shadowed nape of neck,
ruby throated,
concave under fingertips,
head tilted back as if to register
the weight of a grief
before your leaving.

My mother flicked the porch light on,
but in the spreading sun of bare bulb,
fire meted under glass,
you kissed me still.
Hawk Moths circled on one wing,
dancing on slats for the wild burning,
frenzied as black June Bugs
popped against the screen,
unreasonable but brave.

The sides of my tongue
lifted and quivered on
two elbows,
smelling summer rain.
All the unfurnished haunts in
my throat were filled up,
mistakes gulped back by
clouds of condensation,
our breath,
mingled with ivy.

I pulled you back to me while drowning,
but you turned to go,
for the full moon was impatient,
jealous for a covering like mine,
and paced for you outside.

Lake Singing

Unlocked,
Leviathan lies underneath,
huffing into the lip of a glittering bottle,
with resounding bass.
Skated in silver shavings
the descant slivered up
between whittled cricks of marrow.

Crackled,
lucid Bluegills disturbed,
their mud caftans joggle up.
Naked and gliding again
under slick sheets.
Taut,
beyond the bald look-out,
frozen sand in bas relief,
blonded with grass.

Over the ricks of rocks
rusted with iron,
to the covered pontoons
moored at the marina.
The pink-eyed moon
warmed the ice overnight.
Her hands chafed together,
chanting,
ladling libations to the cockcrow;
a sun too arrogant for January,
and too cool for July
must have cajoled
such joyless singing.

The Language of Shade

Under the Pennsylvania Sycamores,
we gathered cadence
as the sun took pictures of our faces,
in flashes between branches.
Our cabin elbowed above the creek,
stilted on clay veins and curly fern.
Slats once painted hurriedly
in noon heat, brushed with army green,
the shade of men.

Remember the raspberry bushes?
Arched canes touched root to tip
and strode to meet us.
Prickled my mother's freckled hands,
I sucked my fat forefingers
and tried to pick as careful as she did.
We picked and bled and laughed, and then
she laid out each berry leaf like a wet dollar.
"See here"? Smooth on the porch railing,
weighted down with stone.
She put her hands on my shoulders.

I was a growing thicket
of admiration and anger.
My breasts were flat fronds,
woody weeds for arms,
ready to make way
through the earth, without regard,
and born to hurt her.
Envious of her grace,
in her shoulders and neck;
long boughs weighted with cares
hidden from me.
I wanted to rest in her cool shade,
but I would not let her know.

The water rolled in a cast iron pan,
as a crow, oiled blue and shimmering
picked berries from the basket.
"We will make tea", she said,
"When the leaves are dry,
under layers of sun."
And we were patient together,
my mother and I,
on the porch until evening came.

For Barrie: Beyond the Fellgate

Photo by Barrie Haughton
Released from this life to the next on January 8th, 2008.
Set to rest and remembered on January 21, 2008, 1:15 pm at Lancaster crematorium.

Beyond the Fellgate,

over yellow Celandines,

your boy legs must be pumping,

arms reaching,

to a Cumbrian sky

the color of Hoegaarden.

Someone calls out

"Neaw Joe, where ar yo beawn so fast?"

but still you run on, smiling

because no one can catch you.

I wonder if you have forgotten

your curries, boiling pots of rice,

sounds of boxing on the television,

steadily clicking computer keys.

Your voice was the hand on my shoulder.

I'm missing you even though

I've never seen your stubbled face

or the way you might have

slowly smiled at some idiocy.

You signed off "Stay Happy"

as if it were a choice.

I know that it must be

now that you are gone.