Poems

Driving east on the 10
I have made this drive
So many times; never
For practical reasons

This was the way to
A lifelong friend, tucked
In a pocket of Victorian
Theatricality, orange
Groves and elderly relatives
All gone now, the orange groves
To strip malls, the relatives
To the next world, my
Friend to Georgia

This was the hot-blooded
Road to first love, all
Tangled in confusion, lust,
And the sweet, aching
Drama of the young
I hear she is married and
Has a young child; I'm
Married too; good luck
To us both

This was the easy drive to
Friends with benefits -
Benefits shucked shortly
After they were enjoyed
Like an empty chrysalys
Leaving a lifelong love
But not a romance
This friend, too, has
Long since moved

I am driving east on the 10
To meet a seven year old child
Who might some day
Choose to be my daughter
It is not a practical thing
But like all such journeys
It is essential

Afternoon slack key
Blue faced doves on the patio
Napali Coast clouds

They made the first gun
in late 10th century China
(where else?)— a genuine boomstick.
Cannons and long-bore guns and rifles and pistols,
for a thousand bloody years thereafter
clever minds and hands tinkered away
refining and perfecting the dream
of handheld death.

None along this journey could know
(though many might have guessed)
that on a Saturday in December of 2012,
in rural western Pennsylvania,
Joseph Loughrey, quite by accident,
would fatally shoot his 7-year-old son Craig
with a carefully machined descendant
of the Chinese invention.

The news reported they were getting in his truck
when Joseph recapitulated history:
“As he was placing the handgun on the console
with his right hand while pulling the truck door shut
with his left hand, the handgun accidentally discharged.”
Craig was on his booster seat to meet the leaden missive.
“Mr. Loughrey told police that he had unloaded
the magazine at home, but didn’t realize
that a bullet remained in the chamber.”

In an instant, all the weight of history
resounded in Craig’s small chest;
it was a lesson he could not bear.
Joseph, surely unaware of it,
nevertheless will never forget.

To begin, the shot itself, that
Thing we endure so that
We shall not have to
Endure, hurts
Like hell

Next, the waiting, so that
This particularly useful
Poison shall have
Time to work
In Deep

After a few quick testing jabs
"Does this hurt?" the
Surgeon begins his
Cutting and
Rasping

I am a whorl of feelings:
Fascination, disgust,
And an intoxicated
Giddiness, that I
Can feel/not feel
The ongoing
Violation

And so it always goes
With buried
Pain

Shadows on the lawn
Children’s voices in the trees
Cottage kitchen calls