1. -- The Loss
He went from me
in silence.
Red crayola in my hand
tired legs rest softly on a
dark blue matt in
Mrs. McKlusky's
kindergarten class.
Handmade shamrocks
stuffed in a brown
paper sack
rest on the seat
between me and Marvin,
we kiss on the bus
all the way home.
Carpeted steps
cushion my climb,
My mother a statue
guarding the white painted
door
to his bedroom,
closed.
Slowing now, taking it
all in
she is never standing
just there
The door is never
shut
like this.
The quiet
in her eyes
is like fire.
Her hand reaches out
opens, and I give her
the bag of good wishes
watch them
disappear behind her back
a flood unseen
rolling over me.
My aunt waits
in my bedroom,
sits softly
on the quilted bedspread,
pats it three times
making a seat for me
next to her.
She tells me that
God calls us to be
with Him,
needs special people
sooner, not later,
sometimes
and I am
already praying
to be ordinary.
I say, my father's dead.
She nods, yes, says
you can cry if you want to.
The TV downstairs
breaks the quiet
and I say no thank you.
My mother waits
outside my room
I hug her skirt
she puts a warm
hand on my shoulder
says this:
It's just you and me now.
My knees buckle
thinking that my
brother and sister
must be special,
must be dead too.
Not dead, but
not the ones who will
light my mother's tired eyes
gather dreams for her.
From now on
this is my job.
I ask can I go
outside to play
she says no
we are in mourning
we stay inside.
Every memory
ends somewhere,
the fits and starts
of remembering
protect us from
too much too
soon.
2. -- The Burial
I am inside my body
then out
then in
out.
They send me away
for the funeral
the long drive
my grandmother
at the wheel
more quiet and stillness,
they don't let grief
touch me.
The Illinois night air
under a bright moon
lights fields of wheat
corn and soybean
as far as I know,
lightning bugs a fireshow
and the fresh smell
of cows in a nearby pasture.
Asleep on the side porch
in the house of an aunt
I hardly know,
everyone agrees
I should be
around other children
at a time like this.
My cousin camps out too,
five or six years older than me
with sun browned skin
a sandy haired farm boy
who notices
my loneliness.
In my sleeping bag
he comes to me
helps me unzip
tells me there's
something he wants
to show me.
I say what is it
he takes down his
pajama bottoms
reveals what I've
never seen before
stretched out
into the cool night
air.
I think what is that,
and ask him.
He says this is my dick
and it goes here
he lifts my nightgown
points his finger
to my panties
the spot between my legs.
I say really?
He says yes.
Let me show you
how this goes in there.
I say I don't think so,
look around
no lights are on
in the kitchen,
the dimness reflected through
the glass pane
tells him the grownups
have gone to bed.
I promise you it's okay
he says.
I do this with all my girlfriends.
At six I wonder
if this will make me
his girlfriend too.
No, I don't want to
I tell him.
Please he says.
Let me just put
it in and then I'll
kiss you here
and he touches
my lips.
I think
that a kiss would
be nice.
I say, tell me what
that's called again
and he does.
And this, I ask,
he tells me.
So I say,
just once.
He brings his stiffness
inside me,
I notice it is hot and cold
at once
he moves on top of me
says, you see?
I say, yes I see
and I wonder when
he will kiss me.
He never does.
When he finishes I ask
is this how it works?
He says yes, this is
how it works, but you
can't tell anyone.
Why, I ask.
Because we would
get in trouble he says,
now hush.
I say Oh and
go to sleep
wondering
what I did.
When the sun comes up
he takes me in the kitchen
breakfast waiting
shoots me a look
that says don't
you ever tell.
I can't eat my eggs,
instead look around
to see if anyone knows
but they move
in a regular cadence
around the kitchen
and I notice that
the clanking of glasses and plates
and forks and knives
is too loud.
3. -- The Lesson
Back home
nothing is the same
my mother tells me
we are moving
my farm, my woods,
my trees, my boulders,
the snakes that surprise
me underneath them,
my cats, the worn rope over
the hay loft just
right for swinging
my barn, smells
of hay in the early
morning,
they won't
be coming with us.
I say, what about my pony
she says we can only
keep one horse, your sister
should keep her horse
and share it with you,
my sister tells me
I'll take the head
you can have the tail
and I say,
okay because
there is nothing
else to say.
I grew up
without
a voice,
in a room
crowded by
silent memories
stuffing down words
as deep as they
would go
afraid that
they might
tumble out
and with them
the tears
that never came.
