Toledo > Bucyrus

When she was mighty, arms outstretched acrossed the Maumee, I thought I knew her well--but I was broke and smartmouthed and failing part time and living out of a PT Cruiser full time. At least it was brief, before it got cold. And a friend saved me. Her arms, too, were outstretched, and she quoted the mantra, "You will do better in Toledo." My smartmouth was chapped and thirsty but words came easily then. Gratitude, too. I floated down the river--down down down to my hometown. That was before my father died, before every flower in my heart crackled and blew away. Arms were closed, then, around the Sandusky. And I didn't hear any more words. No thank-you notes floated down the river, just debris, ripped receipts, old magazines. My dad might hum something while cleaning up after other people's mistakes. But that was all.

Nebuchadnezzar

There, he stood—the golden head of an empire
that stretched across the horizon,
with the rivers of Babylon winding
between the fingers
of his iron fist.
His stone statue
made with many hands,
drew awe and jealousy.

But he could not understand
the day he found the statue crumbling,
its limbs turning to dust
before the many who adored him—
until Daniel spoke,
a captive voice,
the prophet of another kingdom.

And the king,
with all his gold and power,
saw only what he feared—
his reign becoming a fleeting spark
in the dark abyss of time.

He ordered his likeness, a new statue
of gold to be worshiped,
but the furnace blazed hotter
for those who refused to bow—
three men, unyielding, unafraid to burn—
their Faith the only fire
that did not consume them.

His pride could not be quenched by flames.
The king wandered,
cursed by his own greatness,
eating grass like cattle,
his mind lost to madness
as his empire,
so sure, so vast,
shuddered beneath
the weight of the Heavens.

One day, he and his followers realized
their error, their idolatry,
their betrayal of humanity—
a lesson, not a fable.

Saved Voicemail, 12/25/2020

One day, your voice
won't speak to me anymore.
I'll forget what it sounds like,

like those notes that trail
at the end of conversations,
crackle and pop on the line,

like little snow flurries
on Christmas night,
when the house is quiet again

and you're sad it's over.

A Meditation, After Putting Cleo to Sleep

For Mom

some equate smallness
with insignificance,
as if worth isn't just
a matter of vantage point--
perspective, time, and a little luck
held like a fragile package
so delicate
in one's line of sight.

as her tiny heart slowed, then stopped,
I thought about how loved she was,
so thoroughly,
with Dad's gentle voice
and nicknames
imbued with meaning and love,
with his large, callused hands
stroking her fur,
nape to tail,

and how his line of sight
would only blur when
suddenly flooded--
when suddenly taxed--
or overcome with grief
for the small creatures
he had loved and lost
so many, many times, and
I think of this, today,
with this little creature,
old and yet still a kitten,
her purrs slowing down.

our breaths are small
but imbued with meaning and love,
and so are our choices,
like when we ask someone else
to take away our pain
when we are ill-equipped
to do so ourselves.
and with perspective, time,
and a little luck,
we can learn to forgive ourselves
and know--
hands losing purchase, every day--

we're doing the best we can.

Just Before

It sounds like playing the same song over and over, thinking about the weeks leading up to losing you: death occurs after the limbo, but before we can hear your voice again.

I am still falling into the fleshy womb of fear, its warmth separating me from time, and you are not here.

It sounds like leaves crushing into dust, thinking about the minutes leading up to losing you: a strange place, fading before we can find you again.