August 2nd, 1982
It’s too late to touch you now—
my trembling sweaty hands,
choking my thick tongue over words,
thanking you one last time.
Strange, isn’t it? You’ve not stopped
touching me.
Technicolor blossoms tenderly unfolding
gentle, quiet.
Tom Thumb
Within memory, you in Indiana, presiding
over a wedding for Tom Thumb, standing
in the courtyard of garden apartments —
hot summer — scorched grass, underfoot.
Before you stood four year old Alan,
sporting a red t-shirt, baby blue shorts —
a full head shorter than his cousin bride —
fawn-like Susan, clasping zinnias
Wilting from her mother’s garden,
receiving your admiring gaze —
Fluffy half-slip, rayon blouse —
sequin buttons— bride doll veil.
Holding a real-life Bible, speaking
your words, dancing your eyes,
you actually eat doll-tin cupcakes,
drink cherry kool aid in red plastic
Goblets. Eight-year-old Diane
and I wear blue taffeta under
our mothers’ nylon, red prom
dresses, meanwhile other
Cousins giggling endlessly
at the meticulously planned
and executed day.
Dissolving Divorce Panic
That same sweltering summer,
in Oklahoma, in grandfather’s
green chair, holding Diane,
beautiful, freckled, seven,
pale legs dangling
From bright green shorts,
her tears streaming,
her sweet voice croaking
that scary word — “divorce” —
eavesdropping on
Mom’s phone, I shouldn’t
Have told her. Uncle Bub —
you have the lap, alright!
Your voice could reconvene
the shattered universe of any
child. Hearing your kind words,
we skipped away — whole.
It’s What’s Inside
Suddenly, in the altar —
standing, your hands
folded before us on
Our wedding day. Showing
no effort as you stood behind
my shy smile — nor my pearls,
Yet tears drop silently from
your right eye. Later, eating
white cake and champagne
From clear plastic goblets,
you laugh, speaking of a
couple writing their own
Ceremony. “It didn’t keep them
together.” You say, It’s what’s
inside that counts.
Poughkeepsie Minister
In your big green car,
driving us kids somewhere,
I ask you how come you
became a minister. You say,
There is no mystery.
You wanted some way to say
“Take care of your family.”
In the back seat, very
wide eyes, mouths open,
listening, making us all smile.
Autumn Light in Brockton
Standing next to Aunt Bert,
you hold baby Allison.
Geoff captures a shot.
Later, in a church with
blonde pews and tall
windows in autumn,
Light streaming through,
you stand in your black
robes, so very gently
Touching her head
with water.
Armchair Pride
Sitting in your armchair
as Grandma died,
not far away,
(You sat with her,
didn’t you, when
she really died?)
It is hot and you wear
an undershirt, sipping
sherry, eating nuts,
Watching football, sitting by me
on an orange couch. You gaze —
eyes full of tears, saying,
“I am so proud of you, your
daughters, of Diane, her
daughters— very proud.”
Brooklyn Pizza
Once in winter, you and Aunt Bert
welcomed us to your apartment
above Prospect Park.
(You had seen drug dealers
passing goods at night.)
Tear-streaked, we arrived
Just from a funeral for a
murdered friend. You and
Aunt Bert had pizza for us.
We ate and you
joked of re-affirmation —
then rear formation.
Stage Dream
In Palo Alto, I saw you
one more time. I had
thought you were too
ill to make the trip.
July thirteenth —
I dreamed you stood
before me, alone, on
a stage, laughing,
splendid, clerical,
wearing a robe of
velvet and satin.
A tapestry of rich
brocade colors
wine red
royal blue
willow green
chestnut brown—
Even wearing a hat
of the same woven
material curved with
two ends pointing up.
You were reading
a big old book
With gold edges.
I did not know
the service. You read,
then I repeated
your words, then
we spoke them
Together.
