Driving Lessons

My sister learned to drive at fourteen
a 1963 4-door red Rambler
AMC classic Kenosha Cadillac
with seats that lay flat

she would hustle us, my brother and me
out the front door as our parent’s tail lights
kissed the corner goodnight

load us into the back seat
slide into the front
shifting her juice can curls
and clutch and grind
and jerk and bounce
down the driveway
as our Myna bird screamed
‘What you going to do to me now!”
from the front window

0ne night, there we were
my sister, her friend,
my brother, me
at the drive-in
the Texas Chain Saw Massacre
the movie started,
the cries and screams started, the skin masks,
blade chasing, wrong doors,
wrong turns

it was a nightmare
I slept with a flashlight for months
once I heard my sister scream
‘What you going to do to me now!’
as my father stumbled from her room

After my sister died,
I never saw that bird again,
my father said suicide
as if it were a cancer,
as if it couldn’t be helped

Listen

I heard the sound of weeping
but couldn’t find the voice

I looked beneath the bed
behind the doors, in the yard

I peeked in the car, the garage
the neighbor’s house

I looked to the mountains
the clouds, the sea

until I realized
it was me

Grafting

The last time
I wrapped
around you
I can’t remember

because I didn’t know
it would be the last time
you left breathmarks on my skin

There you were
looking out
me looking in
while the whole wide world
stepped aside
a growing season gone
my body, this body
lain to bare bone

Now, when the chill is just so
my arms fall
into that crooked grin
as if holding you
chest to chest
me the rootstock
you the leaf and blossom

When I Remember You

It’s like when the rain falls
and it’s gray
and it’s wet
and it’s cold
and the tears
run down my bones

I break wide open
and run
under
behind
beneath
below
for cover

and call to God
a god
the god
some god
to tell me
how to survive
this downpour

Losing

I can’t write this
I can’t speak this
I can’t paint, dance, sculpt, play this
It just is
the burn between my bones

The bleeding from my lips
shroud my skin in hues
my dry eyes can’t color
Ignorant of earth’s hum
I stutter out of tune
skies tumble and turn
in the gravity of it

I plunge my hands into the soil
to feel a thousand years
and slap my empty palms
I reach to meet the sun
my arms useless
as butterfly wings
in the rain

I touch photographs
one by one to my tongue
taste spring, summer
fall, winter’s still
without you
I ache the not to be
the left behind
the null of it

The Critical Line

Hold your breath long enough and you collapse
but before that,
before the burning peels your lungs,
the laying of hands
the unforgivable touch
by the same last name

before the spasms gut your ribs,
the whimpers, the humbling no’s
pushed, folded, smothered
until they’re swallowed

before you lose the urgent need to breath
before the shallow water blackout
you are seven and you begin to count
19,000 breathes a day

I read that the opposite of holding your breath
isn’t inhaling, it’s letting go