You are here yet I cannot see you
I cannot see the smile of a mother
The wave hello and goodbye
I cannot see the resemblance
You are here yet I cannot feel you
I cannot feel the warmth from a hug
The kiss goodnight and being tucked in
I cannot feel the connection
You are here yet I cannot hear you
I cannot hear the I love you
The my daughter and I'm proud
I cannot hear our heart beats sync
You are here yet I cannot smell you
I cannot smell the mother's cooking
The perfume or mother scent
I cannot smell home on you
You will message
There will be no reply
You will assume I am asleep
Not that I have accepted to die
You will call
There will be no answer
You will assume I am asleep
Not that you were an antagoniser
You will leave it till morning
There will be no response
You will assume I am still asleep
But that's what you want
You begin to become concerned
I haven't spoken at all
You will assume the worst
Your heart will soon fall
The sun will still come up in the morning and go down at night when you aren't here
Regardless of my feelings and my heart
Regardless of what my feelings and heart are my mouth says completely different things.
The moon rises and shines against darkness
While I played the darkness you were my moon
While I played the darkness you were my moon
But regardless the sun will still come up in the morning when you aren't here
We didn't even noticed she had changed
We couldn't have told you she wasn't herself
She was the winner of best actress years in a row
And the award goes to...
Of course she could wear a smile like butter on toast
The only thing is we didn't know the butter was melting away
We all say she makes us smile
She made us smile even at our worst times
We were only there for her best
We didn't read the signs she gave, the little messages she left in-cryptic waves and good mornings
How was we supposed to help? We couldn't have known
Although I know when we are all alone we think of her
Infected with your love
The virus infested in my heart
It grew around my body eating away at my mind
It ran through my blood and I it's willing host
Like water seeping into every gap
The doctors couldn't prescribe me anything
They said it's too far gone I'm sorry there's nothing we can do
The machine went flat and a long beep came out
Your face drained of colour, you moved to her face
Realisation infested your mind
The guilt grew around your body
You are bow the host
Gram couldn’t sleep one night.
Said she never could when the moon was full
or when it was new, like it was that time.
So she was just lying there wakeful,
and she heard the hens start to make a racket.
There’d been ‘coons around,
and there’s minks sometimes, so close by the river.
So Gram got up and got her gun
and went out the front door real quiet
and sneaked around back. She saw a bear
standing on his hind legs, coming up towards the house.
‘Course, like I say, Gram could see in the dark.
So she took aim and shot.
When we heard, my sister and me
came running out in our nightdresses,
and there was Gram, standing with the gun in her hand,
She has been weeping.
He is eating a muffin slowly.
Her right hand flutters helpless
in the air above the table.
There is an empty paper bag before him.
There is a small brown stain on her blouse.
He finishes the muffin
and wipes his hands on his thighs.
She takes a sip of coffee
from her yellow paper cup.
He turns to her,
opens his mouth to speak.
She says, clearly enough
for me to hear:
No. Never. No.
The shepherd is in the field;
his sister is in the cottage.
The queen was in the parlor;
the king was in his counting house.
The lad has gone to his home.
The citizens fled into the country.
The fisherman is at sea.
A policeman was walking up the street.
The workman was digging in his garden.
The girls were sent to school.
The old man was waiting at the station for his son.
The child fell over the cliff.
It was the Feast of St. Michael which means
that twelve years ago, my mother died.
The ivory billed woodpecker is extinct again
and the long dream of progress is over.
A friend called while I was making salad
to report a monarch
on a goldenrod stalk.
What did I think she should do?
We talked, and pondered
what we know. Orange,
thus inedible. Late emergent
or tired migrant does it matter?
She left it under a hosta
with a nectar bouquet.
In the morning, it was gone,
we told ourselves, on its way
–about how they kept me
under the bed
and sang songs to make me cry and then laughed
at me until I learned to stop.
About how
the only safe place was a castle where
every evening we watched the sun go down
while we sang Gregorian Chant and ate
burnt marshmallows.
About the teacher who
wouldn’t let me read beyond and the teacher
who stole my arrowheads and the teacher
who slapped me when I played the wrong notes and
the teacher who made a pass at everyone
but me.
About the horrible gray skirt,
Let there be a switch. A knob.
A handle to turn, to close
the cupboard where the cold,
red terror burned so long.
Let the habit of natter
be silenced. Let the aching
taste of sour simply stop.
And may the texture
of release spread
like a smooth satin scarf
across the scar.
Across the ditch, under the trees,
a new chainlink fence, broken stones repaired.
The legible epitaphs:
Franklin S., onley son of Daniel and Atlanta Chipman
died March 2, 1831 AE 2 years and 2 months,
and yours, Atlanta, wife of Daniel Chipman,
died Oct. 27, 1842, age 33 years.
No trees when you walked
this mountain’s stony side:
the forest gone to timber and graze.
You walked among stone and scrub,
the thin green grass.
Vulture, coyote, had not come north,
wolf and rattlesnake had gone.
But raven and hawk searched your pastures;
diptheria, smallpox, scarlet fever, tetanus,