– 156 –

A Memoir

I'll start with the cat:
Annabel, I love you I said.
She was my only wife.
She grew flowers from her ears.
All night I could smell her next to me.
If I ever needed to find her I'd lick my finger
And follow the wind.
Before I was young I crowed like a rooster.
They kept me in the dark.
I could tell it was morning when light
Batted its paws under the door like a kitten.
See what a man is made of said my Father or
Grandfather. I was a teenager then.
Once I could draw a perfect circle
In the middle of a piece of paper.
Afterwards I'd hold it outside
Under rain until it turned blue.
Old po-face they called me
And I'd think of Edgar Allan
And love my cheeks fiercely.
I have always liked Spring best,
Not the clammy palms of Summer.
Or Autumn, which never cleans up after itself.
I can't say I have lived widely or loved thoroughly—
Life began for me an hour ago.
I was in a small room,
Ice in the keyhole.
I reached upwards and found myself
Elbow-deep in flowers.
Annabel, I said, Annabel

– 157 –

But the windows became wind
Blew the petals away, stalks
Hanging from the ceiling.
Five minutes have passed since then
I have no idea about my next move.

These Days

I
We stop the car at the dairy
eat icecreams post beach.
Dad finishes his icecream the car
goes again. Dad always finishes first
I finish last the smallest I sit in the front
seat get sick only long-distance not beach trips.

II
He said
I could she said
I could not.

III
When R—died the whole funeral day like
running up sand dunes. Running and slipping
back and slipping into
until no smooth sand eroded peak.

IV
She thinks does a flower petal change
temperature in cold would it freeze
royal icing cake decoration.
Two mornings ago he said
don't you think it's time?

– 158 –

V
Someone stood up, impromptu modern venue
said R—really knew how to make a Christmas cake
I thought I knew but she really
was a small broken bird.

VI
Before this family Dad had
another family he drove them
to the beach too. Four kids
like car wheels. Now, me and my
sister, two wheels on a bike.

VII
Have to harden your heart
he says and she thinks of
pastel candy heart lollies
that said Call Me
then powdered in the mouth.

VIII
Throwing dirt on the coffin in family
order. Three children now
seems our little bike
is gaining on the car.

IX
She is all dressed in white skin.
He drives her there one handed.
Exhausted faith mists every surface.
Inside her tiny bundle, feather wings.

X
Dad loses balance edge of grave.
Not a matter of composure.

– 159 –

XI
She wakes he is out
cold in the parking lot.
Her body has lost its windows.
He comes later offers coffee, smoky embrace.
Look—
she has no means left to see him,
folds away, white sheet.

XII
Small wake. No room
to eat. All this blame.
Dad and the dog stand hours
outside, smelling the sea.

Come December

1.
I have a special song this year
and something else will end,
come December.

2.
The silver bus is too long to turn:
road blocks and someone honks
Hhhoooonnnnnnkkkkkks.

3.
It has been a bad Spring:
Rain and erosion.
Many people have been waiting
for a seat in the sun.

– 160 –

4.
I arrived at the foot
of the view with my song.

5.
I keep driving into the view,
listening. I don't think for a second
something has to be empty
to take you in.

6.
The average radio listener tunes in
for 40 minutes. My song
played eight times in one afternoon.
It has been a bad Spring.

7.
How the view can take the weight
of the body and all it is thinking—
December and what will not last.

8.
I was empty and you took me in.
The sun has reached the window before me.
Now it's only a matter of time—
a slow slide to the left.

9.
Enough is enough and that is not easy.
Someone carrying a glass of water
into December.