Tim

The Chinese are always very frightened of the drowned one, whose weeping ghost, wet hair hanging and skin bloated, waits silently by the water to pull down a substitue.

—Maxine Hong Kingston

My uncle haunts me
stands on the toilet while I shower
eyes ringed with shadow
looks down over the curtain.

Fog clears on the mirror
reveals his bloated face
skin tight and shiny
jaw slack, pale open
lips with turned up corners
his eyes follow me as I
dry my hair, but he
can’t blink.

When I lay in bed at night
his knock is hollow on my door
mom said not to answer
not to let him in.

They never speak his name aloud
a ghost; it lingers on the edge of lips
unsaid. I break the silence
whisper Tim
turn the doorknob,
let him in.

The Fairy Ring

This cassette tape celebrated my birth
has played as many years
its gentle whisper of piano
synth and strings the Fairy Ring
as I read myself to sleep
in the darkest hours it keeps me under
one side crawls to its end I rise
eject and turn the tape
then back again to listen
moonlight moves across the floor

Now I see where fingers eroded
text on either side the composer faded
sings unsteady the sound
it aches my lungs and wavers
weakened short of breath
magnetic tape worn thin
wails hollow loss pitch warped
my voice is hoarse

I listen but can do nothing
sleep or turn back time
eject and turn the tape
at night I can do nothing
but hold the ruined song
hum what I remember

Clancey

This is just a first draft--let me know how I can improve it.

I’m worried, but I’m stuck inside all night
behind the counter serving those who can
take off as soon as they receive a call
from sobbing mothers asking for them there.
And yet the phone that rings is mine, it hounds
me, shaking with a nagging urgency
it rings, it’s mimicking the shaking of
her shoulders when I don’t respond. My phone
is silent now although I still can feel
the ringing on my skin, the cold vibration.

But later when I’m driving to her house
through empty streets in Omaha, the phone
is farthest from my mind. I only drive.
The streetlight streaming in illuminates
the faces of my friends; of those who know
the tragedy and feel the need to see
it for themselves. They knew him too, and we
cannot console each other, only share
this silence.      If he is dead when we
arrive we will return the way we came.

Bridge

My Father's Legs

My bicycle, granny smith green and mud-splattered
stands out on city streets
moving slowly in the right lane
clinging to the curb or the line
of parked cars. I’m out of breath, my legs burning

but the wind blows against me, a sudden gust
rushing down the tunnel created
between high-rise offices and
crumbling apartment buildings.
I feel faster than I am, a racer;
it’s a sprint in the final stretch.
The people on the sidewalks are fans
shouting and waving flags.
Someone yells, “She has
her father’s legs.”

A car honks and races by me.
I’ve stopped; this side of the yellow line
seems narrower than the other.
I’m no racer, but my father’s legs
will carry me home at the pace I choose.

Georgia

When I see the red-rock mountains and cliffs
of Box Canyon, I know that she came here
with her paint box
and a sketchpad she thought
might be big enough
to hold the image before me.
But my notebook isn’t big enough
and there aren’t enough words. If this scene
could be captured by words
or in paints it would have been
done a million times already
on cave walls, boxcars,
billboards, notebooks; we would
tattoo it on our backs, we’d sing it
out loud—the world would
be obsessed.

But if Georgia O’Keefe couldn’t do it,
then neither can I and neither
will anyone, until the cliffs fall and the sun
sets behind the rubble, leaving it
invisible in the darkness.

Sleepwalking

Mom is in the kitchen making Dutch babies—
instead of church on Sundays, we have breakfast.
I stumble in, fresh from sleep,

and see the table empty, the stove off, no one home.
I yawn and smile: she’s back again, the table’s set.
Go and get your brother, she tells me, Can you believe
that boy is still asleep? I pound down the stairs and knock

on Eddie’s door. Rise and shine, sleepyhead!
There’s no answer so I throw open the door,
ready to spring on him, but the room is empty
of furniture. Just a few boxes in the corner

and bare walls but when I rub the sleep
from my eyes, I hear a groan, I’m up, I’m up, and
We race up the stairs to the kitchen.

Mom has let the cats in from the garage and is
feeding them sausages. We tell her that’s not
good for them, and she laughs. Put on some music,
that Martin Simpson album.

but the CDs are gone with the couch and the stereo.
Where are they? with a hint of panic in my voice,
and her call sounds like it comes from far away,
the bottom shelf, but how could I have missed that?

Then the sweet sounds of Irish guitar fill the house
and for a moment it’s just me and
When I Was on Horseback. My family
and I sit down to eat but before the fork

reaches my mouth it disappears, the plates are
gone, and Martin Simpson fades away. I rub my
eyes, I blink, but nothing works. The dream is over
and I find myself alone in our empty house

remembering the wedding and my mother’s
new home an hour and half from here by car.
I want just one more breakfast
of fresh Dutch babies.

I return to my bedroom, still fully furnished,
and I crawl under my covers, turn on my
own Martin Simpson, and go back to sleep,
hoping I can drown in my dreams and never wake.



Photo:
http://www.cornichon.org/