Friday, July 10, 2015



When they put tablets on each other’s tongues,

knowing it was time, and the young woman

gave a tablet to their child, saying to him

over and over, stroking his hair, sleep,

and they lay down, the small child between them,

they interlaced in quietness and stillness

that conquered all circumstance, they tasted

the worst anyone could taste and then even

when their eyelids lowered as if weighted

and the capability to speak left them,

and they were being swept into nullity,

they continued to resist, they touched hands

across their dead child the moments before

the men with guns aimed at them forced the door.


They lay again where they lay together  

the first time, sharing within kissing mouths

crimson glaze-coated confectionary,

laughing as the pieces melted through them,

they lay in the long viridescent grass

gazing into the deep blue forever

of the sky, the sky a door open wide,

a white cloud floating by, they lay again

where they turned together and were ushered

into the original flesh of pure faith,

and the day they lay there and their last day

were one and were what they knew now of days,

and this day alone lifted and carried them

beyond division of future and past.   


Then when the two could no longer hold on

and their hands fell away from one another,

they were taken up in a wild waiting,

a desiring outside all categories

of thought and feeling that was also an act,

a withdrawing into itself, a filling

itself again in grass, sunlight and air,

as in a never ending birth, neither

bitter nor sweet, that they in human love,

the love the end that it begins, crystallized

in the flesh as what was sweet, cancelling

what was bitter, they were gone, they were the way

they had known the sweetness, they were the candy

and the way they had known the touch, the candy.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Picking Blackberries With My Daughter

We discover together a long bramble wall,
and come back on half a dozen days in August

to where there is blackberry after blackberry
for me to put in the container I bring and for her to put in her mouth.  

Is it okay to pick the red ones? Is that a bee?! Is it?!
No, it’s not a bee, it’s a wasp, I tell her. Bees, wasps -- don’t be afraid.

My three-year-old picks and picks until she’s tired
and asks me if we can go home. My container is full. 

The countless blackberries left -- for sparrows, raccoons, squirrels,  
for the air into which the fruit rots away.  

Will the blackberries be here again?
Yes, they’ll be here again, I say. They’ll vanish and reappear --

they’ll arrive, they'll go, they'll come back
through their places in the bramble,

they’ll travel from this blackberry bush to this blackberry bush.
It’s a sorrow bush. It’s a joy bush.

Can we come back here again?
Yes, we'll come back, I answer. I my way I pray we will.

We’ll come back like people with prayer notes,
and we’ll fill our hands again with blackberries.

They’ll stain your lips, tongue, chin and cheek with their juice,
they’ll explain you like the wine that you will one day drink.

Whatever we ask for, whatever words we use, 
the blackberries will be here, like prayers that grow in empty spaces.   


A murder of crows stands along a power-line, 
and I hear nothing all morning but the cawing,
and see nothing but the shapes of blackness --
the sires who deal out death, find and eat the dead --
and then I recall sitting naked hours in a chair
in a hot, bulb-glare-bright, urine-soaked cell. 
Waking another time, face to a cement floor,
in a lock-up out of an old TV sitcom,
breathing in cleaning-bleach fumes, vomiting.
Striding proudly into a cell in North Vancouver --
the place I had always wanted to be.
Where I could rehearse my image of him
and try to be him and dream he loved me.  
Hometown RCMP jail. Smooth grey walls.
Pure white bowl. Steel ledge bed. I hear my heart muscle
contracting in rhythm as if working wings.
Almost hear it caw. Almost feel the valves,
the membranous doors allowing the blood
to flow in and not out, out and not in.
Know now my heart is the scavenger of my blood --
its one need is to fill its emptying hollow.
I have brought it to a barred concrete box
to clench, to unclench -- to plead in this way 
for blood to flow with force in through a door
to the son I am, and out through a door
to a father cawing down the corridor artery,
and back again to where sons and fathers
must begin and end, and meet in nothingness. Crows
fly off then up to the tops of power-poles.
I want the caws and carcass-dripping beaks
to show me the way to no right or wrong,
good or bad, love or hate, to instruct me
in how there is nothing more than the hearts
of those judged to be lost, apart, punished.
I want to walk in the heart of the criminal,
the father and son who are free, the man
who holds within his core the blood that beats
through the slaughtered, the alley crow, and the flower,
even as he is led away in the sun to be killed. 

Friday, July 3, 2015



I find webpages and see the faces

of two of your now forty-something siblings,

and imagine how you looked in middle age.

Study even the obituary notice picture

of your mother, seventy-eight, for clues.

But you are twenty-two. It is late summer,

you are wearing white pants, a simple blouse,

you stand at a distance and smile slightly,

and let me take a photograph of you.

You are there in sunlight, in my cells --

you are there, you are twenty-two.

Meals I did not sit and eat with you,

and my food and drink without you now,

all of it nourishment for the cells --

the cells vanished along with what they held

of what I was and what I knew of you

and since replaced with new cells,

and the cells still here, which will vanish.

I saw somewhere among a poet’s lines,

What is not of flesh, we won’t remember.  

And I know that the cells of the body

both remember and disavow the body.  

And the living flesh is its testimony

that it can only remember then forget.

And the sunlight falling all around you

acquits itself and you, and continues falling.

And what is of the body, we will remember,

as it is what we can possess, and can’t last.  

And what is not of the body, if we imagine

it is another body that can only remember --   

still it can’t save us. The body will forget us,

and if the spirit can tell us it knows us,

or which among the scattering and fading cells

comprised us, we won’t be there to hear it.  

Far inside the cells of my body now,

where I am only barely a body, in sunlight

you are twenty-two, and you remember

and you forget, and neither come to me in touch

nor invisibly hold sway, and you step toward me.  


The card you gave me, your small handwriting

on the back -- is gone. But the deep black ink

of the artist’s drawing pen stayed with me,

and the ancient couplets became the dark

that holds the living organs, the same dark

through which the deer runs, giving off thin smoke

as it seeks the stream. I enter that dark

now in sleep, and I hear you: What you bear,

I will like my own body bear and tend.

I will be the breath in the animal

that pants and whose heart chants through it,

that burns like the one fire in a night camp,

and that departs from the night where it thirsts

to find the waters when the sun appears.

All this time you have been the one in me

who arrives and stands with me at the stream,

where I seem to sleep instantly, my breath

unseen rungs that lower me down. The wound

in the deer is memory of waters

and allows the deer to bow, drink. Ripples

in the quick flowing melt me. Whatever

my desire is, here it finds the change. I wake

burning but becoming dark and more dark

and moving through the touch of water. Wake

within pure explanation: I am what

I come to, and always I come to you --

to know you is to want like fire, water,

to remember the first fire, first waters.