II. To the Dead

Dear Pablo
I haven’t read your words
in a while,
I haven’t seen the product
of your pen being put to paper,
to tell me of your life,
ideas,the world.
Even if you had written,
I probably would’ve left
the letter sealed on the table
until the moment was right
to feast on your thoughts
and craft my own story
to tell you.
But now as I write to you,
my thoughts drift
to the rock music
on the cheap stereo
I have precariously perched
on an old wooden cabinet.
I’m not concentrating on
trying to impress you
with my epistolary skills
which is even a surprise to me,
considering your ability
to use your eyes
as a direct source
to your pen.

To Ted
I don’t know much about
you,
your life,
or the world
you lived in.
I only picture Victorian houses
and antique cars.
I have no biographical sense
of you,
which I find freeing,
though some literary critics
would argue that
its necessary,
but the stories
your words tell
are fare more important
to my understanding
of you as a poet,
a storyteller,
I’d say.
Because the pages fill my head
with moving images
of you and Sylvia
living,
walking,
breathing,
which is more
than any biography
can do.

To my brother
Mom gave me a clock
you made,
when I was little,
to hang in my first apartment.
It was dusty,
the hands askew,
hadn’t been used in years.
The abalone inlay
was dingy,
and the black frame
had a few light scratches.
I cleaned it off
with a damp paper towel,
I wiped away the years.
The abalone hues
appeared, the blues,
and purples,
all swirling together.
The clock hangs
above our futon,
I usually fall asleep to
its gentle rhythm.
Sometimes I dream of you,
dreams are a place where
the time of the clock
doesn’t matter,
and for minutes or hours,
you’re with me again.
I like to think,
that crafting that clock,
you also created time itself,
but no one could stop it,
not even us,
by leaving its hands frozen.

To Frank
I have been to seven countries
in the past nine months,
my feet have followed the
steps of the many
others before me,
but those footsteps
are not yours.
From old narrow streets
and underground trains,
to foreign grocery stores
and canals
your steps elude me,
but I keep searching.
Each time I am on a hill
in cities,
I stare down at the lives below me
but yours is never there.
I keep walking,
knowing I can’t
follow your footsteps
just yet,
but I’ll still keep searching
in vain.

To my ghost
You drove me home that night,
To my bath under our dirty bathroom light,
I wished the moon would shine
through the tiny window that was painted black,
I slid into the tub, letting the hot water scald my skin,
pretending the black of the window was the night sky.
Out the front window, summer faded into fall.
The mountains were our neighbors,
they greeted us on cool windy mornings,
maple and oak trees waving their branches,
and I watched them, sipping my morning coffee.
I remember when you hiked with me into those woods,
following a creek, twigs crunching underneath our feet,
and making muddy tracks on the leaf floor.
With soaked sneakers we climbed up slippery rocks,
to gaze at the waterfall and its frigid mist.
And now, as I rinse the soapy film from my skin,
I hear you unlock the door and come in.
I look up at the showerhead,
and let the water cascade over my face.
To my 15-year-old self
I catch a glimpse of you
on summer nights.
The last few times
I saw your
I was putting on
comfy faded jeans
or a baggy hooded
sweatshirt. The nights
are getting colder
During those brief moments
I feel parts of me fall away,
the faded scars, the old pain
I hang on to,
they fall to the ground
shattering at my feet
and for those few seconds
I feel lighter,
I feel the cool air on my face
and hands
and it feels different.
But as soon as I realize
where I am,
it all comes rushing back
and I feel as though my legs
may give out
from under me.