Poem 27

It occurred to me that it is Memorial Day, so I took a quick tally of the people I have known who have died. It turns out that a vast majority of my friends and family are alive and kicking. It's been a long time since I've been to a memorial service or funeral; even the death in this poem is fairly distant in time. Fortunately, death hasn't been a huge influence on what I write. I suppose there will be time for that later.
This poem gives very few details about my grandmother. I should write one about her.

For Elizabeth Stewart

With a cloud-scattered sky
wrapping over worn hills,
I drive out from rocks and interstate
to this cherished green,
fresh with sprinkler water,
above Connell.
Polished stone over earth
shines with wet grass clippings
and hides what’s left of you
after 13 years in one spot.
It’s so strange now,
a mineral symbol among the wind
and grass here, a bird song,
distant traffic.
I remember the music

“Just a closer walk…”
To think I didn’t know you in the casket.
My hands cowered between skinny legs
and the wooden pew.
I imagined building a brick wall
between the dark and me
while I tuned out the man who sang,

“Grant it, Jesus…”
I could not look at Dad
so I stared at the hymnal and
offering envelopes,
counting the days
of early September
until sixth grade would begin.
I wanted the service over, and soon.

“Let it be, dear Lord…”
I have slipped out of my air-conditioned
Honda to stand
on green so precious
here on the Columbia plateau
that we pipe in water for miles.
I want the last memories
before they seep into my rocks and soil
as you have seeped down into basalt.
I scoop them up in a muddy paste,
which starts to dry even in my hands.
We dissolve in so many ways.

Poem 26

I'd like to begin this post with a shout-out to my brother, Brian, who reads every poem. He's written some cool poems in his lifetime, including one about cutting Christmas trees with our dad and a villanelle about forests. Because I had to look it up, a villanelle is a poem with 19 lines that only uses two rhyming sounds among other criteria. I probably should have known that.

I don't know if Brian writes poems anymore since he's busy getting ready to make lots of money as an econ major.

After Spring Break

I-90 as an asphalt wound,
black on the green-gray
of Grant County spring -
we glide towards
backlit college promises
of smooth thighs,
satin hair.

My brother and I,
passengers of spring,
are driving back west
from Spokane.
We sing along with the stereo,
stopping when we hear each other.

The pedal reaches the floor,
but my foot lifts
as if I don’t want to get
back too quickly.
My last miles of college
wait north of Seattle,
and after that,
I won’t have a map.

Looking left:
greening grass and sage brush.
Right: a wave of basalt
along the canyon wall.
March in the scablands
reveals a lifetime.

Our time of life:
twenty-four years old,
twenty years old.
We stretch upward
roots investigating the depths,
no thoughts of August chaff.

Poem 25

No poem last week, and I am unlikely to apologize for it.

The students in my publications class helped me to revise this one. They are a pretty insightful bunch for being in eighth grade. I hope I had something to do with that.

On another note, I don't think anyone is reading this anymore. That doesn't mean that I will stop, but I'd like to see a comment or to for no other reason than to know anyone still checks this. Thanks!

Coaching the High Jump

With the meet packed up
and the score keepers
tallying up an afternoon
at a table on the field,
the few of us left
huddle like family
in the dozing 6 P.M. light
for the last high jumper.
Mom and dad with camera,
tight fists, and sunglasses
stand to the side
to let their son guess
with his whole body
the height of the bar.
They are crazy for letting me
teach him this risk.
We watch him
as he packs enough hope
for eight steps and a jump
into a few seconds of quiet.
He rocks forward from his mark,
and runs hell-bent at the pit.
Rebelling against gravity,
he throws 13 years of
meals and doctor visits,
care and genes, at the sky,
trusting the pad to receive
his neck-risking dare.
For an instant,
so small I could
pluck it with tweezers,
he stops over the bar
and starts to fall,
foot grazing the fiberglass pole.
His body hits, and he rolls
off the pad, the bar
still humming above.