Note: For the best experience, please read these poems from the embedded PDF above.
Pantoublock with Resilience and Kerosene
I’m trying to explain to my therapist why I don’t talk about my mother more.
I try to chalk it up to philosophy: how one life ends, another begins,
and we just continue, just go on. She looks at me as if to say I’m buying into
my own bullshit. I’ve learned 20 different words for resilience
since December and none of them apply to a world without a mother. I try
to chalk it up to simple grit: bad things happen, sometimes they’re interrupted
by good things, and we just continue, just go on. You show up to work, you pay
your bills, you feed the cat, and the world continues in an anonymous hum
around you. I’ve learned 20 different words for grief since she died and none
of them approach the volume of visceral my body pushes through each day.
There is a wall of silence so loud, it breaches the sound barriers on all sides
of me. You go to work, you argue with bill collectors, you rinse the cat’s water
bowl, the world moves around the dead air of your silhouette. From the couch
my therapist raises her penciled eyebrows in an arch I am all too familiar with.
There is a wall of silence so loud, it crumbles every skyscraper to dust within
100 miles. The odor of Kerosene on a pile of frame-shattered photographs
wafts outside the window. From the couch my therapist scribes more
observations she’ll refuse to let me see. I wish I could convey in words the void
that’s left when a love so pure has been cavitied out of your life. Kerosene
poured over stacks of cardboard boxes with familial detritus. Black smoke
mushrooms in a cloud outside the window. I pull on the hem of my sleeve and
study the asymmetrical patterns the shag carpet makes when I cross my eyes.
Pantoublock with Scratchy Sheet and Infinity Loop
None of us are getting out of here alive, but that doesn’t stop us from
looking for the latch. You can’t swing a door and drop from life
down into life. It doesn’t work that way. We’re all subject to the binary
of existence. One door leads in, the other leads out. I squeezed my eyes
shut and wished hard, but there was no resurrection, just blood trick
-ling down my cheeks. You can’t swing a door and walk back into birth.
The Reaper won’t show you the way. Lit candles in a circle emit only
smoke. I squeezed my palms together and prayed hard, but there was
no reunion, just blood running down my wrists. This life is a unicycle
and I’m ground into every groove. Lit candles in a circle conjure no
ghosts. My dreams curtain into mornings spent on bedsheets
with low thread counts. This life is a wash cycle and I’m stuck on spin.
Forgiveness is resignation to the inevitable. I absolve no one. My dreams
curtain into urine soaked subway cars tracked to an infinity loop.
We’re all subject to the laws that govern traffic on Charon's ferry.
Forgiveness is resignation to the weight of loss. I concede nothing.
Pantoublock with an Angry God and Pieta on a Dust Planet
I’ve given back every thing I ever called possession and we’re stranded
on a dust-strewn planet. Our faces are thick with grime and debris
but our hands are touching. We’re sprawled in the middle of a desert.
I lay my head on your shoulder. Once or twice every afternoon a lizard
scurries across our bare feet. Our faces are thick with caked on sand
moistened into a clay by the sweat dripping from our burnt hairlines.
A bobcat roars its displeasure at the rim of a dried out lake. Once
or twice every afternoon an ostrich prances by on tiptoe. We have all
we need to survive a drought except a tent and water. The god of sand
shows his face of displeasure and blows a sheet of dust across
endless dunes. This is the cost of making bargains with the universe.
We have all we need to withstand the desert’s scorn except for water
and pride. We were promised an eternal pieta, but we were never
promised a home. This is the cost of making bargains with the universe.
You have to be precise with your intentions to manifest your desires.
We were promised we’d be encased as a bronze pieta, but we were never
promised an exhibition. Still, given the choice between estrangement
and a thousand days and nights huddled amidst the chaos of desert
plains, I’d roam the spiteful, arid hell of this planet with you every time.
Pantoublock with Persephones and Milk Cartons
Lost is the wrong word for abduction. Before you died, I wrote a book.
All the characters were Persephone. The settings spanned fields, old
dirt roads, and abandoned parking lots. As a child I slept by a locked
window a 45 minute drive from where Polly Klaas was taken. Before
you died, I wrote a book. All the characters were looking for
Persephone. Demeter put on her death mask until her trifling brother
returned her daughter. As a child I slept with a thin blanket draped
over me at the foot of your bedroom door. History is a matter of course
-correcting all the mistakes of men. Demeter put on her death mask
until Hades brought Persephone back as a spring child who’d been
poisoned with winter. I knew you’d protect me and my sister. We each
chose an ankle to cling to. History is a matter of course-correcting all
the misdeeds of men. Polly was not returned to her mother in any
discernible shape. I knew you’d protect me and my sister even if it
meant scaling the many steps down to hell yourself. Lost boys and girls
littered the sides of Sunday morning milk cartons, their faces grey
and monochrome against the plastic-coated, shiny white paper.
Polly had a theater erected in her name and in every play they reenacted
the Eleusian mysteries. When the Reaper came to affix your death mask,
his feet crunching dead weeds, we wrestled it from his bony hands.
Pantoublock with Sky Cast in the Role of Mourning Child
The sky is freeing herself of her burden like only someone who’s lost
a mother can. I will be permitted no drought to hide in. I can’t
replace the parts of myself that left with you. The piercing of puddles
on the ground creates only more circles reflecting back nothing
but grey. I will be permitted no rest from the black storm clouds
stalking me. I roam, incomplete, my right shoulder hollowed out
in the shape of a serrated knife. The piercing of parting clouds reveals
an orange molten fire through the fog overhead. The Reaper points
a bony finger at me and laughs. I roam, incomplete, my chest
hollowed out in the shape of a stale syringe. If you were to look at me
now, you’d see trees bending in submission to intemperate winds
through my sternum. The Reaper turns away and walks up invisible
stairs leading to the infernal clouds. On each side of the avenue
the earth is pushing through asphalt with blackened roots. If you
were to look at me now, you’d see dead ragweeds tumbling in a circle
between my shoulder blades. The sky is blotting herself with a base
layer of black dyed brimstone. On each side of the avenue blackened
roots spread across concrete like upturned palm prints. The traffic
lights ahead all blink red. A dead pigeon plummets to the ground.
Pantoublock with Persephone and a Three-Headed God
Is the bird a villain or a god in the fish’s narrative? Do mice
worship the snake to keep it at bay? So much devotion
depends on the notion of survival. We lay flowers near
the river so it won’t drown us in its broth. Do deer offer
sacrifices to the wolf to spare the herd? I light a candle
to The Three Sisters to ensure my own longevity. We lay
bodies at the foot of the temple stairs so the monster
won’t stalk our village. We worship what we can’t consume.
We play god to what we devour. I light a candle
to The Fates to secure my future. I want my thread to be
longer before it's snuffed out by an indifferent flame.
We worship what threatens us with oblivion. We crush
another bug on the sidewalk. Persephone knew she had to
swallow Death to go on living. I measure a longer thread
for myself before presenting it to Chronos. Another wrist
of blood poured into a chalice is presented to the Sun.
Persephone knew she had to court a cult to get around
Death. She bided her days until she grew big enough
to consume Hades and transform Hell into her own image.
Pantoublock with Dance of the Seven Feathers
She danced the dance of the seven feathers. One for love, two for grief,
three for rage, and one for any mood she needed. She moved in parallel
to the moon, twirled her body around in a full circle. The air moved
with her, lifting the hems of her dress. Pink for love, blue for grief, red
for rage, and black for any mood she needed. Out there in the fields
surrounded by sleepy barley, she carved her own crop circle. The heat
moved around her, coating her luminescent skin with pearls of sweat.
In the wake of her motions a purple light emitted beneath her feet.
Out there in the fields surrounded by the lulling chirps of crickets,
she bent her knees and cast her arms towards the stars. She wore a belt
of feathers about her waist, and they rode the wind in a spiral around
her body. In the wake of her motions a gust of air bent the tops of the
barley in a curve. Two yellow eyes appeared near the roots. The belt
of feathers around her waist spun of its own accord, gaining speed
with every turn. A ring of fire emerged, mirroring her ritualistic move
-ments. Two yellow eyes watched from the roots as the fire churned
about the circumference of the clearing, then dissipated into a wall of
smoke. She lost neither rhythm nor step as the plumes from the ash
drifted upward against the deep blue night, silent, in no rush for dawn.
Pantoublock with a Dream and a Cracked Side Mirror
All weekend, everyone spoke about how nice it was to see you, forgetting
you’d been gone for almost twenty years. John spoke about having a beer
with you by the lake. Linda said she beat you in the relay race behind
the house. When the dream ended, somehow, no one was surprised.
Leslie spoke about how you fixed the cracked side mirror she’d been
driving around with for the past few months. Everyone was surrounded
by a bleary light that refracted from each person to the next.
When the dream broke, somehow, the light was gone, but the memories
remained. Bob wanted to take you on his newly squeegeed motorbike
through the woods. Everyone was surrounded by astral layers that felt
as authentic as the saha world. We sat side by side on the edge of
the pond and I asked you why you kept pulling focus away from mom.
Bob wanted to bring us a couple beers and I demurred for a red wine
spritzer. You said there was comfort to be found in the older ache.
A black swan swam across the pond in front of us. I threw a handful
of crumbs from the slices of wheat bread in my hands and watched
them sink to the muddy bottom. You said I’d find comfort
in the wounds my body had already amalgamated to. When the dream
ended, and I rose from the pile of pillows on the trundle, there was an
open bag of wheat bread on the edge of the bed, slices falling to the floor.
Pantoublock with a Christmas Cookies
and a Half-Drunk Milk Glass
I take a tray of cookies from the oven and nudge
the door closed with my knee. The milk is half
-drunk in a clear glass on the sink. I pinch
a smidge of red and a smidge of green sprinkles
on each flat bronzed face. The tissue has been
laid in the holiday tin, the edges crimped.
The milk is half-drunk and there’s a pale
mustache on my son when he runs into
the other room. He plops on the couch
and pulls a thick, age-worn book to his lap.
The tissue has been laid in the holiday tin and
a snowman gift tag lays sideways on the table
behind me. There is one less name to add
to the list this year. He plops on the couch
and flips through pages of faded photographs.
I wait for his questions, knowing he wants
a story to take to bed with him. There is one less
card to address this year. He has your eyes,
though you’ll never meet. I wait for his quest
-ions, knowing they won’t sting any less
this year. When he asks about his grandmother,
I tell him the truth. He has your eyes, and it
feels like I’m telling you about yourself.
When I tuck him in later, plant a kiss on his
forehead, I say goodnight to both of you.
Pantoublock with an Infernal Parable
Maudgalyayana peers into the pit with a clear view of hell.
Agony walks on finned feet between two magma
boulders. Far below a siren screams, shaking a ring
of boiling calderas. The scream is his mother eating fire.
Despair walks on eight long claws in a semi-circle along
the lip of a crater. He watches his mother’s hands singe
to black clutching an orb of lava. The scream is his
mother’s body on fire. Flames reach up without hope
of touching heaven. He watches his mother’s body
charcoal into obsidian. He appeals to the Thus Come One
for help. Flames pucker around his mother’s ankles.
The Thus Come One offers instructions. Maudgalyayana
assembles a thousand Bodhisattvas around the pit.
They cast their hands down towards the pit, breaking dark
with light. The Thus Come One bows in obeisance.
White smoke blows in a spiral from the purified land.
