THE MATTRESS

I was on the ground, on my knees,

deflating an earth-toned rubber mattress.

It was left behind when hospice came 

to collect their bed and after 

the Neptune Society had come to collect my father.

It was a cushion meant to keep him comfortable

and bed sores at bay as the end drew near.

As I kneaded the mattress with my knees, the air

escaped in deep exhalations, like the ones 

my father had made the night before

as my mother and I sat with him

in his last hours.

I had never been so close

to the act of breathing, 

to breath itself,

to the thin, fragile line

between breathing and not.

Never had I watched a breath

come and go so intently as I did

as I sat at my father’s side.

A shriveled shell that once buoyed a life,

provided creature comfort,

was all that remained

when the breathing finally stopped.

And with it also went, thankfully, 
my father's suffering.

Grief, I imagine, will fold over us,

my mother and I, in the coming days,

as we learn to breath in a world that no longer

includes my father and his breath.

CABIN PRESSURE

There is a world of oxygen


all around,

all the time.

That never changes.




But our breathing does.

We can reach for the mask first




and live in a state of emergency,

feeling pressured by the idea

of a cabin, or we can breathe

our own deep breath

on our own accord.

We can actually sit back and relax,

and enjoy the ride,

knowing, though, there will be 

turbulence, as well as

pretzels and nuts—

compliments of our friendly

flight attendant called Life.

THE SANDMAN

Dreaming

Is the destination.

The place where

Imagination and wonder

Take flight.

The sleeper

Makes possible

This passage.

Without him there is

No portal.

No wings.

Set the stage for him.

Make the bed

He will lie in.

Fluff his pillow.

Tuck him in.

Be the sandman.

THE BOX

There are bones in it,

a set of lungs,

a beating heart, a mass 

of gray matter.

Flesh encases it all.

It carries itself

dutifully across time,

until one day

it can't carry

what it once carried

any more. If it only 

had a mind it might

think: I want to be outside

myself and empty.

THE CAVE

It was always there.

The mountain

just concealed it

with its rock.

What remains is

the gaping hole,

the darkness

that moves haltingly

about the day

like a mouth

full of anger and hunger,

that swallows

everything

in its path

with a punishing

silence. Its sole purpose,

if you can call it that,

is to stitch itself

shut, silence

the sadness

once and for all

so it can know a sleep

larger than the mountain

it once called home.

THE COURIER

I have carried

a great many things

in this life

while on my way

to one place

or another.

There is no cargo

more precious, however,

than one’s own parents

on the long journey 

back home.

Nothing prepares you

for such a voyage

or for how heavy it is
on the heart.

SUN-KISSED

In high school I was an easy target.

Small, frail and afraid. Utterly breakable.

A field day for bullies.

One afternoon during lunch

as I stood among friends outside the gymnasium

it entered our little circle like a comet.

Hurled by one of my tormentors, the orange

exploded on the side of my head.

Juice and rind sprayed everywhere.

I staggered to stay standing.

My comrades took hold of me

and hurried me to the bathroom.

What I saw there horrified me:

a face all red, eyes bloodshot,

hair a pulpy mess.

I was a gruesome sight.

Unrecognizable.

While washing, the image in the mirror

delivered this command:

Change your life, now!

Show them how big you really are.

I heeded the advice.

In a year’s time I turned a paltry frame

into a suit of armor 

by obsessively lifting weights 

and eating like a hungry ghost.

Brawny, twice my original size,

and as strong as a forklift,

no one dared to taunt or cross me ever again.

Bullies were fawning to be my friend.

You can add mass to anything, if you will it. 

This was what I learned that day

when the little ball of sunshine

smashed into my skull. All these years later 

my ears still ring with this lesson 

like a melody as familiar and as foreign

as the music of the spheres.