present tense

one thing that happens at a funeral
is that everyone is still using present tense

we go to john's funeral
i am very under dressed
white-haired men in suits,
lucid eyes shining blue
brows furrowed
with the denial of his death
and shock

i approach his smooth-surfaced box
my mind apprised of
nothing but the rise
of the burner's tremendous flame
and how much he taught us

it's really not floating or flying but
actually a slow falling to the ground
only buoyed again
by the immense heat of the torch

no one knows what to talk about
and for lack of acceptance they whisper
about how difficult it will be to liquidate
assets like hot-air balloon envelopes
and baskets, burners and tethers

we bought sig a living plant instead of flowers
we want her to have it, not for anyone else to take it
i am hesitant to tell her because i think it's too ironic
of course she's so far withdrawn now it makes no difference to her

again, a reminder that no one is eternal
and we are constantly decaying, always breaking
even he who seems indestructible can be here one moment
then gone the next

someone will notice his cat outside
wandering, confused at the sight of snow
and have to break a window
to find him motionless
fallen to the floor
not to fly again

15.12.07

one of my earliest memories
is of seeing a candle lit above the shine of the sienna carpet

i know nothing about its purpose or context
it is just something to me--the mystery of a flame
whose heat i've yet to know

it is winter and outside is cold

cold i know
cold is what my fingers felt when
my mommy slammed them in the door
before church because we were in a hurry

i want to feel this flashing fire
who beckons me with its dance
i'm only a baby and i'm still protected

but nothing stopped me from gingerly touching the flame with my fingertips
and i don't remember what happened further than that

bassinet/bussing it

i can remember curling in a tiny ball
covering myself with my sweatshirt as a blanket
in the furthest seat back,
the one with room enough for three

early morning chill before the sunrise
the muffled sound of loading luggage into the bays below
and the engine slowly idling, blowing billows of steam into the air

not quite as romantic as a train, looking back
but to younger me it is a sleepy adventure

i hear conversations whispered against the condensation of the windows
the slow rocking of my cradle
my father's turning the wheel like waves in the ocean

we are squeezing through city streets
buildings' walls decorated with murals, giving us perspective

the destinations aren't unpleasant but
i can't help but want to get back on the bus
to feel rocked back and forth and speed
high above the highway and its dream lights
to feel again at home and in between all at once.