After a week of snow it finally broke, and started to melt
and with it sliding off the branches and dripping off the gutters
it looked like the sky was crying, the earth
collapsing in on itself
and with the snow clung to the gutters like a vice,
making the trees look like linebackers
with their shoulders slung low,
what a relief it must have been,
when suddenly the weight from all that snow slipped
off, and the branches sprung back up.
Is this you, Depression?
The weight that won’t shake?
The spent tea bag stapled at the top,
the icicles dripping on a Saturday afternoon
freed from any thought of what time it could be,
spread out like a soft cheese with hair
unwashed, snow with nowhere
to go, nothing we don’t have
we need
In the dark my dog and I set off to climb the trail,
crawling beneath trees,
drinking from streams—
up the switch backs hugging
the hillsides with only
our night vision and senses
to guide us
At the pass, the wind came rushing
in to tickle our sides—
and if the sky could vomit it did,
with chunks of ice turning to shards,
so hard we had to find shelter
and cover our heads
beneath a tree
It gushed and cracked and coated
everything and then stopped,
and we carried on
without another soul in sight
that feeling of the wild,
of deep isolation,
of being removed
and connected
at the same time.
I became aware of my ears
as they shriveled,
and fell off.
And then the same,
of my arms
and hands
until all I was
was raw nerve,
sense memory:
the lizard brain,
a gland
the size
of my thumb
controlling
the tower.
The rain came back, so long since we’d seen it
I went outside waiting, listening for it,
trying not to draw parallels to my dry
January: Dawn and I got a table
at the steakhouse, a split of bubbly,
and me, a 20 oz. ribeye I ate all of,
including the fat—
In the morning my head hurt, but I walked
to the lake feeling old, feeling more alive, though:
then laid on the sofa in our den
with no sound but the clock and the dog
shifting, letting the kids sleep in,
making plans, drinking water,
remembering what I could of
past Februarys, hoping for snow,
knowing no more, feeling
no pressure to, wanting
to be a better man, but
sure to forget
again, in the morning.
Where does it go, when the hair recedes—and why does it leave?
And will I go like that too, without any notice
but more a long, slow fade
like snow thawing in a field—
And are we just that then, coming and going?
The right combination of elements
reincorporated,
our season of being, now.
I grind my teeth at night,
I clench my jaws
what’s troubling me,
beneath the surface?
big, prehistoric fish
swimming low?
my fears, my desires,
combined to one?
you clench your jaws
for all you want to say
but cannot,
they said
I’ve lived long enough
to know, there is no spirit
or sign, no wizard who comes
in the middle of the night
to shake our shoulders
and whisper
Believe—no,
for whichever waters
we choose to cross
it is only us,
alone,
who can
How many memories do you keep in a jar on that shelf? Here’s one from my 20s, driving across a bridge at night with the stereo up loud. Were we out of our minds high on the energy of our time, with youth slathered across our chests, burning all night? Were we on our way to a party, or a bar with girls we wanted to chase? And when the drums came in, how they moved through us like a dark wind to carry our souls away. And how alive it felt, to leave our bodies behind. How I’ll play that song still, in our suburban house when it’s warm enough I can write with my shirt off, to draw out that dark wind. How gladly I’d give my soul away for it. I have a jar full of tokens for all the times I did.
