Her Memorial & The Song of Vacation
Her Memorial
Coming up on my turn to speak—
this woman who in death had become
a saint. Who are all these solemn faces,
I don’t know. She could send you to hell
with a single look and I can’t say that
to them when I describe her. But I’m not a liar.
Behind them sits the sun—
it hangs over their heads like her voice,
muddles my narrative. I have no clue
how or where she spent her last hours,
nor do I much care. Give me clouds and I’ll
speak of the ghost-trace of something lost.
How the stopwatch of summer was winding
down, and the mottled sky threw shadows
calming to both her face and body. Her speech
became eloquent, a touchstone of places
half-remembered and far away.
How despite the hurts she still knew in her bones
she did not hate me. I loved her
during those times. I prayed for the veil
of clouds, and thanked God for them in ways
that only condemned children know.
And I spoke about the woman with elegant grace
who grasped at clouds like a moth grasping for flame.
The Song of Vacation
I watch as the faithful return here each summer.
All the usual haunts exactly the same,
proprietors the same, even the welcome mats,
diner menus rich with seafood, ole one-eyed Jake
at the counter, cup of coffee and his paper
stake his spot out as he waits for his eggs.
Everyone’s kids get older, the girls
with contact lenses and bras, scent of Bain de Soleil
as they saunter past boys they didn’t care about
last year. Their parents somewhat embarrassed
to admit that yes, they finally learned to play bridge,
and if there’s a square dance some night?
Count on them in their pearl-snapped shirts,
petticoats as wide as four lanes on the highway,
and Saturday hair appointments, heads wrapped
each night from Sunday to Friday to sleep pretty.
Two years she’s been too damned busy to come visit.
Always a reason that there never was before.
Her voice went hard with bitterness when I called
that one last time, and now I mean to find me a new woman.
I don’t stay here to walk the beach in solitude,
and I’m not waking up hungover round the corner of The Mill,
bones frozen from sleeping on the damp brick, fog
coming in as the tide breaks the hem of the shoreline—
I am a good man and this is my town, come summer,
come winter, I’m here and I’ll be waiting. I don’t ask for much.
Stay as nightfall quiets the sea’s damp winds,
dance with me, my hands at your waist, yours around
my neck, watch my eyes as I tell your fortune without blinking,
and when the stars shine in the dark like distant searchlights, love me.