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Three
Poems
by
Jack Powers
Questions
at the Funeral
Are
his golf clubs in here? My
brother asks
as
the full weight of my father’s casket buckles our knees.
We
try to be strong for our teenage sons behind us,
for
the horseshoe of crowd around the grave.
The
full weight of my father’s casket buckles our knees.
I
stumble, gather myself, and head
for
the horseshoe of crowd around the grave.
The
priest begins his incantations.
I
stumble, gather myself and head
down
mumble Our
Fathers and
Amens.
The
priest continues his incantations
and
I want to believe these time-smoothed words.
Head
down, I mumble Our
Fathers,
Amens,
but
they float away into pale June sky.
I
want to believe these rituals, these well-tilled words
but
they've never taken root and I know the truth:
We
float away into pale-mooned sky.
He's
gone. The horizon squints at me like an old farmer
and
I've never taken root. I know the truth:
I
need to get out of myself – my self-circling
meanders.
He's
gone. And the horizon winks at me like an old farmer.
For
the first time I feel the earth spinning on beneath
me.
Weak-kneed,
I dig out of the self-grief circling me under.
We
lower the dark-grained box into the dirt-dark hole.
The
earth spins on beneath me.
We
try to be strong for our sons behind us.
as
the dark-grained box settles into the dirt-dark hole.
We
should have put his clubs in there, I
whisper.
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Bed
Head
Some
days it's just a few dried cowlicks in the mirror,
a
frizzing mold of near-dead sleep, excess plaster
from
the cast for Face
Planted in Pillow.
But
some mornings show a marathon of rolling and writhing,
chasing
after shadowy figures or being chased
(cows
licking furiously in an alarm still echoing in my achy
muscles),
searching
for lost children, or worse, unable to remember
what
I've lost. Each frazzled strand stands like a
scream
shouted
into black night, frozen, stricken still.
This
morning I run fingers through the storm field
and
try to recall the fear or humiliation from minutes ago.
But
whatever socket of panic I plugged myself into
is
more than I want to remember. I step into the shower
and
wash away the night.
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Sonogram
Welcome
chit chat fades to commands: Shift
to four. Hold.
Doc
and nurse synchronize. Dial
up. Stop. Then
just
breathing, squish of wand on goo and belly. Carl realizes
he's
clamped his wife's hand, unclenches, exhales, avoids her
gaze.
Dee
prefers the pain of squeezing, stares past his cheek, tries not
to think
of
his Shhh,
it's okay. No
need to look at this flickering screen.
She
knew. She knew. She knew. She knew. Dee closes her eyes.
Carl's
learned to read these grainy images: ribs, clavicle,
hint
of lungs – smooth pale stones beneath rippled current
reminding
him of numbing water, sharp ice line thigh-high,
Cast
there. He
balanced on wobbly stones. Tug
and release.
Doctor
and nurse slow and stop. Don't
say it Dee
begs. Not
out loud.
No
words she must repeat to every prying fool. Her womb
still
echoes
with his kicks and morning stretch. She wills her mind
clean.
Cast
farther now…near the edge. Bending
the pole back,
he
flicked. Silver line unfurled, glitter swirl in sunlight.
I'm
sorry.
Doc
offers his gloved hand. Nurse cleans, straightens,
bowed
to task. Click.
The monitor darkens to centered white star,
then
black. Was it trout? Thin-lipped mouth open, perfect
O reaching,
engulfing
hook and lure? And with a wiggle diving deep. Shhhh.
Carl
doesn't know he's speaking. He guides her off the table,
shakes
out her folded jeans and sweater, leads her to the door.
Shhhh.
She
lets him steer.
Swrrr
of running reel. Then snap. Slack.
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