Notes for a Postpartum Letter

I
I'd like to leave this house of sadness,
as you, Edna, have left me and this world,
with so many things left unfinished,
and I, with so many things left unfinished:
Useless.

II
You were the opposite pole,
whose energy sent me out into the countryside and onto the river,
and when your energy faltered,
into the arms of Jesus.
Edna, my love, you have left me, and this world,
yet I cannot say "it is finished."

III
If I think of returning to places we once visited,
I am filled with dread and sadness
(I should look into this),
yet I sleep in the bed where you died;
my spirit sinks sometimes
when I return to that house and that room
after a long day at work.
Yet, for now, it remains my home,
a home of suffering and sadness.

IV
Edna, how could we live together for 27 years
and still know so little about each other?
I blush now with shame.

V
Often, when we tangled,
it was like arguing with a mirror.
You could match me fault for fault;
perfect point counter point.

VI
Now and then I pray at the couch
where you rested day and night,
and I can still smell the chemo
that that seeped from your poor saturated body.

VII
I remember putting a waterproof sheet on the bed
because of what I'd read about things the body does
when it expires.
But it wasn't real; I expected a miracle.

Bad Math

Edna, the loss I feel
just doesn't square
with the trouble we had
with each other.

Too Many Words

Sometimes there are too many words,
and the Muse, heartless bitch,
whispers in my ear:
"Pick out the ones you want;
we'll drown the rest."

Its the Weather

Its the weather.
Its the same old song,
watchin' it rain,
watch it rain,
watch it rain.
Somewhere there's sun,
somewhere skies are blue.
I'll be waiting,
I'll be waiting,
I'll be waiting
if not for God then for you.
Its the weather,
Its the same old song.
Watch it rain,
watch it rain,
watch it rain.
Time to call it a day,
say goodbye to pain,
watchin' it rain.
Its the weather,
its the weather,
its the same old song,
its the same old song.

Pas de Deux (dream)

I met a dark-haired woman;
she appeared suddenly,
as people often do in dreams.
She came close to speak low,
something cool and friendly in my ear.
I leaned forward to hear,
and my cheek brushed her bare shoulder.
When I raised my head,
our lips touched and held,
a kiss!
I nearly fainted from joy.

Sunset Again

Sunset again,
stealing my world
leaving me penniless.
Sometimes I face it down,
but the result is always the same:
empty pockets for the night.
And just before dawn,
takes the last of my mind.

Empty pockets,
they don't make the grade,
Momma may have
(but Momma's in a nursing home),
Poppa may have
(but Poppa's been gone for years)
So God bless the child that's got his own, til
sunset again
takes everything I gave.

Sometimes I stare it down,
but the answer is always the same:
Sunset again
and empty pockets for the night.

What Can I Tell You 10/05/07

What can I tell you about the sunrise?
A red ball slowly rising
behind the leaden tule fog;
the orange haze,
and above in the fresh blue:
the white surprise of a few clouds,
A flock of birds,
testing the cool air of a new day;
the trees, still, and patient for the higher light.
In a moment of distraction,
it will all vanish, and exist only as a memory.
What can I tell you about the sunrise?

Poem and Apology

Last we spoke, you asked my name
and uttered some words I took as praise.

Oh! 
...see how quickly the hungry trout
rises to the bait!

Trial and failure;
it happens again and again,
and somewhere a monk
rolls up this paper
and swats the inattentive student.

Teilhard de Chardin 10/26/07

(We were meditating on his eloquent statement
of consenting to be diminished in God as he aged and died.)
...
I watched my wife slowly die for five years,
Her death is a terrible mystery I cannot solve.
Her death is my Kaaba, I circle
in reverence and confusion,
anxious for revelation.
But no revelation comes;
the mystery remains.

She left without any dramatic declarations.
I think she was surprised and chagrined
that her prayers, our prayers, would not be answered.
When that became clear, she faced it,
went to bed and quietly finished it.
I faced it with disbelief and anxiety.
It was only later that I also gathered in anger, sadness,
regret, and bitterness.
The disbelief ("help me in my unbelief")
rests on a bedrock sense of inequity:
It should have been me.
She wanted to live, she had reasons to live,
while I live as a hapless reflex, passing the time.
I am uncomfortable in this world,
as beautiful as it is,
and find people vexing.

There is nothing new in these feelings.
Everyone left behind has them.
"I hear you lost your wife" my voice echoes,
"I lost mine, too, just over a year."
(while inside, the time
has become meaningless.
It feels like it happened yesterday,
and like it happened long ago;
it never happened, it's happening now,
and it is eternal).

Her death is my Kaaba,
I circle and circle
in reverence and confusion,
anxious for revelation.
But no revelation comes:
the mystery, and I (for now), remain.