she was there when we moved in
smoking a cigarette
a Newport, from a blue box
and she said to me
“that’s a nice lamp,”
which was my mom’s busted-up
desk lamp, borrowed
because the new townhouse had
only a couple ceiling lights.

when i left for work at nine-thirty
monday-friday sometimes saturday
she was smoking her cigarette
Newport, from a blue box
and we’d exchange a half-dozen words
on the weather or what-have-you
and it’s through this way i learned
her name, her age,
that she actually owned two stoops
and i didn’t really get a word in.

when i came back from work
she was there on monday-thursday
five-thirty, smoking
several Newports from a blue box
in the afternoons she wouldn’t say
too much, except to smile
about her daughter
who was a little older than i
although i don’t think i learned her name.

and on sundays, if it was warm
and a manic anger at litterbugs
riled me up
i would go pick up trash on the street
after one-pm
when the church-folk had gone home
cause our block had this little green lot
the kind you find boxes of kittens in
but with the fluffy good things came
needles and glass tops, cut plastic,
Newport-branded blue boxes
so i would fill up my bag of trash
and lay it on the curb
‘cause monday was trash day.

i think her voice was a gravelly timbre
with as many lines and creases as her face
so when she spoke, you’d listen as she
removed a Newport from its blue box
‘cause you’d think it was the beginning of a fable
but it normally wasn’t
and on a thursday in june
the third summer our stoops were neighbors
she complained about the late bus
to “a nay.”
i smiled, but didn’t get it.
“narcotic’s anonymous,” she said,
‘cause i probably misheard,
the fable faltered and i went inside.

the fourth summer our stoops were neighbors
the lowest stair cracked apart and crumbled
her daughter patched it up
immediately
i moved the next june

Nothing is in the folder of her life.

Intense heartbeats,

Warmth of tears,

Raindrops that wets her skin,

The scent of cream stew at the morning,

The sound of crushed cans,

Loneliness and ice cream at Christmas Eve.

They are not in the folder of her life.

Marks of her life

Dwell only in her heart.

No one looked at her.

No one noticed her.

She made many flowers bloom,

In the darkness.

She made many words dance,

Under the moonlight.

She softened someone's pains,

Believing the morning glow.

But

No one looked at her.

No one noticed her.

I have listened too often

to the doubt. My dog

sleeps at my feet every

evening. I must have

done something right

to earn his love. As night

moves forward, I sit beside

the low light of the lamp

my mother gave me. My

mother gives me gifts made

in Ireland. She used to drink tea

by pouring it from the cup

into the saucer and

then to her lips. She

collects teacups. I collect

teapots. Sometimes I drink

my tea by pouring my doubt

into a saucer. It's gone

until I brew another pot.

It is quiet at the water’s edge today.

Dawn is lifting back up into the air,

her toes brushing away the orange

strokes she had laid across the lake.

There is a patch of grass

in the distance. From where

i lay, its colours look faded.

With my head twisted

the way it is, i can just make out

the tips of each blade.

With my cheek pressed firm

against this wood, i watch them

as they slowly remove their frosted hoods

as above me, the trees begin

to clothe themselves yet again

in blankets of breathing things.

And all the flowers now wake,

and bat their eyes to watch

the rays of sun

as they tip-toe in perfect

patterns and flash their

perfect smiles.

Oh, how lucky they all are

to shake off the cold of Winter.

While i remain, a frozen stretch

of body, stuck still to one of Earth’s

broken arms, like paint to walls.

While i linger, a frail reminder

of bitter days of old. A jagged piece

of the world, dirtied and thin.

But i saw a robin today

at the water’s edge,

and she was beautiful.

She looked at me sideways

with a gentle grin, and she told me

“Winter has gone.”

Yes, Winter has left, so it seems,

but she forgot me here.

Fragility hides behind a daughter’s façade,

resilience earned through efforts while

shattered dreams litter the landscape

mirroring a breeze’s trail etched into sand

leading to her long-abandoned shell, coated

by a fine film of salt crystals that cling

to rough cervices, binding fractured segments

yet glimpses of a pearlescent interior remains

a once safe harbour to a young child’s dreams;

before obligation and expectation’s heavy toll

pounded against its fortified calcium crust

encasing memories of that neglected part

hands aged by time tremble, brushing aside

disappointment’s caustic dust and collect

the cracked remains shimmering in sunlight, 

and survive to push forward another day.

Generations of my provincial

forebears pruned passions

with sharp shears

of shame, buried

blossoming desires deep

within the bone

orchard of discarnate dreams. I

examine concrete markers,

search stories written on stones,

pluck wilted flowers mired in mounds of soil.

Venturing into a copse

beyond the cemetery’s edge, I

find branches rooted in humus.

Green shoots sprout from fallen limbs

spirited earthward by an evolutionary wind.

We leave the interstate early to avoid traffic when it closes. Uncover a charming downtown, complete with train tracks, a clocktower, shops well after dusk. A tow truck follows us until a 14-mile stretch. You tell me you’re scared and I ask if it is because of the novel or rural road. You reply it is both. We pass yellow signs for curves, mailboxes, fog from trees. Somewhere above Lake Erie is lightning, orangish hue, stretching far on occasion. In your chapter is Room 217. I recall being your age and not wanting to see the other side of that door, the lady in bathwater. Danny should continue down hallways. Outside of the open window is a line of trees and a moon that seems October. Clouds covering most of it but tonight we are in mid-July. You take a break from the Overlook Hotel. Kool + The Gang lightens your imagination, crossword puzzle on your phone. A possum on the road, puddle with a sheen, its eyes still reflective. By Webster Church Road there are others. The Italian lights and the highway will appear out of the woods.