Hospital

 This hospital is no place for babies

yet there they are. Hello, hopeful noobs. The doctors here all began as patients-- the sickest ones. They are told, "see one, do one, teach one." Primum non nocere is the motto-- first do no harm and yet harm is much of what we do. It's a teaching hospital and the teachers all appear in mirrors. Upside, there are drugs, downside, they're contraindicated like religion. Meet the chief of medicine, with his kind, tired face and bloody smock. He likes bromides, and offers one now: "Pain is the crucible from which our true selves are born." He posts a list on the board every Tuesday. If your name is on it, well done, his maxim is true. If not, feel free to apply elsewhere, such as a factory or a restaurant.

Copper Country

 It's beautiful up there, and you shone.

At home on the rocky shores of Lake Superior,

I was a smooth stone for skipping; you were sunlight on the water.

What I didn't understand was the night that far north.

Red-haired, speaking with a hint of Quebecois,

you drew me immediately, because I was little rocks beneath the tide

and mistook you for sunrise and a pleasant peninsula.

What I didn't understand was Gichigami's jealous nature.

Any geologist sitting on a stool in any tavern in copper country

can tell you that a rock can be both solid and fragile.

He could describe the smooth, sharp, shell-like fractures

called conchoidal. But he is drinking, leave him be. 

I brought heft with me, I thought, cases of books

and a hard restlessness, cold to the touch and longing not to be.

Laying eyes in you, I sensed your spark and mistook it for warmth.

Copper conducts, it borrows, it doesn't hold a damn thing.

I am a little of this, a little of that--a collector, I carry some of everything

that has ever touched me. I am worlds, a common rock, a human.

You are what you are, pure in your own denying way, charged but empty.

What I didn't see then was that I was seeking brightness down a shaft.

We lay together in the cooling nights, the snow came, ten-twelve feet.

I thought I was strong, and that you were worth every devotion,

but I was flint, cracking and stabbing as we loved, and you were 

never meant to be moved, turning weedy green in the northern air.

I miss copper country. It's real, though mined out now. I've moved south,

grown older, living alone, staring into the fridge at midnight as if at stars.

And you? You dug in deeper, a disused light on the shore, pretty and dark.

What I didn't understand was that we would hurt each other so much,

and that it would matter so little. The indifferent lake still shines and sighs.

__________________

for my friend Dora at Dverse Poetics: Lyric Petrologies

My father was fascinated with the history of our state, and took me with him all over, explaining and teaching as we went. There is nothing quite like being taught by a teacher who loves his subject. 

Michigan's state motto is, "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you."

Lake Superior is vast, and always cold. The shores are rocky. Its wild, careless beauty is easy to fall in love with, and it does not care that you are there.

Music: Megan Dixon Hood "Drown"

Once In a Lifetime

 Once in a lifetime you get the Big Prize

but it comes wrapped in rainy days

and cotton batting, incognito if you will.

You stupid fuck, wake up will you,

all you have to do is throw out a hand

and there it is, shiny as the 4th of July,

fantastic as a first kiss, spinning like a new planet.

You'll look back like Girl Genius some day and say,

yes yes THAT was the day, the thing that lit you, burned you brilliantly.

Sure, the slog and grind will still be there, grinning with

its lopsided sour grapes grin, the days will still stick with thorns,

but the thing, the marvelous unexpected thing, stays lit, stays true.

Look, Bunky, what I tell you is true, and when it's over you'll

howl and want to die, that's part of it, the lit thing the fantastic thing

that comes once in a lifetime, but if you throw out your hand,

your OTHER hand just as the ship is going under, sometimes

the once in a lifetime comes twice, repeats itself like double sixes,

and there you are, lucky and lucky again, you shiner, you flaming star.

---------

for Dverse Poetics "Once in a Lifetime"

Music: Blaze Foley "Clay Pigeons"

Bad Eye

 It's the harsh angle of the sun in August, I think, that tricks my bad eye. In the stillborn space where the walnut tree smothered its  lessers with shade, a cape of weedy green masquerades as grass, as lawn, a trickster for my blind spot. 

In the magnified bright reflecting off the house's siding in afternoon, the mulberry stump sends up a fresh forest of suckers, higher by the day. This is fool's summer, when what was is gone and what remains puts on a play, wearing a harlequin mask, and kindly saves a part for me, I tell myself "There is plenty of time, to repair, heal, do more than was done today." 

This is my bad eye telling tales and the iridescent image swims through a mirror that flows  in and out of vision, in and out of me, like life itself. 

______

for my friend Dora who is hosting at Dverse Prosery today. Her theme is "Luminous Accountings" and requires the use of the italicized section from "King of the River" by Stanley Kunitz. 

Process notes : I seem to be losing the vision in my left eye due to a mysterious spot that showed up on my eye exam in February. Some days it is just blurry, other days all I can see with it is shapes. Fortunately, my right eye remains just garden variety nearsighted. As if to make a joke as I wrote this, my  eye decided that an ocular migraine was in order. I get them sometimes. Not to be deterred, i counted the words up four times and they came to 144 each time. 

Last year my neighbor complained, quite reasonably, about my big mulberry tree that was scraping his roof and dropping berries pell mell on his porch, so I had it cut down, Then last month my beloved black walnut tree split in a storm and had to be removed. In the bare place where its shade prevented much from growing, there is now a carpet of some sort of creeping weed. Things come, things go--including me sooner or later--and are replaced by something else. Any passing dinosaur can tell you it's true. 

Walnut & Mulberry

 My big black walnut tree is gone--the storm took it.

The stump is something like the white skin where a ring recently was. I'd like to have a funeral procession but I lack coffin, instruments, mourners. I would like to dance for my lost companion, but am denied. Being old is like being a kid again, in the worst way. I nag: Watch your step don't fall careful with that don't drop it. I goggle at the world and the thousand things I cannot do. My mulberry tree was thirty feet tall. Now it sends up suckers, keen to be what it was, again. I can reach out my hand and touch the top. Watch where the root cracked the walk. Look where you're walking don't trip better sit, crack your knees catch your breath. I'm the same inside, what happened to this flesh, this life? Like the mulberry, it was cut down. Like the back walnut--the storm took it.

Post-Apocalyptic Movie Buff Gimbal Lock

 After the last movie theater closed,

cluttering the world with popcorn debris and unnumbered Curies NASA reverted to using steam locomotives. The astronauts in their unexpectedly heavy white mummy suits sweated and itched in the smoky, manic compartments all the way to the youth hostel one town over where the older crew got the bends from dust in their blood. An old woman with the moon in her eyes served them soup made from hemp rope and lemonweed then offered beds requiring a series of keys and a free shove. A movie was shown, an old celluloid copy and the astronauts' eyes were like searchlights as Ray Milland manned the ack ack gun and smiled at them in their theater-style seats up in the air, astonished, easy targets.

Hrimfaxi

 

Hrimfaxi shakes and cold stars fill the sky--

His breath falls and frosts the fields. 

Like the currents of tide or wind,

his movement is his purpose and your life

is simply a road for his hooves,

a place where he will go and has been.

Nótt whispers and he slows;

she raises her hand and time stutters, every star goes still.

The firmament is the field through which he goes,

and his hoofbeats are the ticking of time.

His body moves through wheeling constellations,

and the stars are the grains of his pitch-hooved mill. 

No structure can hold Hrimfaxi, no time precedes him.

There has never been an hour when he was not there,

carrying Nótt away from and toward Dagr and Skinfaxi.

Day, loud bright harlequin on Loki's leash, I give you no care.

I wait for Hrimfaxi, who stamps and stars tumble unmoored,

whose sides are bellows for a cold fire, and who treads the moonlit air.

for Dora at Dverse Poetics. 

Also in honor of my shieldmaiden BFF, Joy.