Don't Go

I want to ingest you,

to swallow the charred remnants

of your bones,

inhale the ash

from my palms.

I want to incorporate you.

But nothing remains.

Instead I slide your ring

on my finger,

a knuckle of chrysocolla

framed in silver.

I drape your scarf

around my shoulders,

eat the leftover pineapple

wrapped in the fridge

still fresh.

I read your poems,

seek out your handwriting,

words you formed

in purple ink.

I talk to myself

as if you could hear me

"Ampie?" I ask,

the tendril of my voice

wrapping around your name

"Ampie?" I ask,

with no words to follow.

I am a child at bedtime,

voicing a half concocted question

that will force you to stay.

My infant voice grasps the finger

of the Great Being you already are,

the one I'm learning to become.

Om Mani Padme Hum

We place our hands on the blue box

 The Grotto, Echo Canyon, Chiricahua National Monument, AZ

you chose yourself.

What made you do it?

Did you feel suddenly mortal?

The attendant indicates the end

that holds your head.

He steps softly back into the shadows.

Om mani padme hum

the chant rises from our viscera

as we urge our voices

over the roar of the furnace.

Twelve palms send compassion

into your vacant body.

Eight more hands arrive

now twenty palms,

two hundred fingers gather

to release the last husk

of your life.

One lidded eye opens

the blue box slides in

the chamber ignites

we chant you into ashes

with Great Words of compassion

Never one to miss an adventure,

you must linger here.

Surely you waited to witness

your own cremation.

Plaza, Cloverdale

In the plaza,

the stage stands empty.

A lattice of shadows

sharpens too-bright sun.

I see you there,

your back against the pillar

that holds the roof

dressed in your latest find,

a shimmering shirt

you wear proudly

as a badge of lost weight.

Your head rests on

still warm cement

you soak in music

through your pores.

Amplified base

plays your skin

like a drum.

"There's my seat" you said,

laughing,

and walked to claim it

racing unseen competition.

You caught the bassists eye

and grinned

falling in love with music

all over again.

And now the stage stands empty.

Your seat empty

or maybe your spirit lingers

for one last

blue note

of music

in the evening air.

Visitations

 

My first introduction to "pregnant lady syndrome" was when our blue Toyota Tercel bit the dust. The right rear shock had sprung through the rusted undercarriage and invaded the trunk. A week later my parents traded it for $100, its total value in parts.

After that I saw blue Tercels everywhere. "You know, like when you're pregnant" my mom explained, shaking her head laughing at my blank look "well, when you are pregnant, you see pregnant ladies everywhere."

I see Gail everywhere. Gail's grey hair, "crisp and curly" my grandmother called it, worn by a woman walking outside the natural cafe. Gail's walk inhabiting a body that moved towards its car in the Safeway parking lot. Gail, not Gail. Gail's body, Gail's car. Not Gail.

I also see her otherwise: on Arroyo Burro beach, in the raft of western grebes bobbing among the kelp, nodding in unison, preening; peering from a peregrine's eyes, as it perched on a snag at the bluff's rim; reflecting down from the ice crystals that ringed the moon. I breathed her name into the air. Luna.

I don't mean that the grey-haired lady and the western grebe and the peregrine and the moon's halo reminded me of Gail. I mean that I felt her there, as fully as if she stood beside me, as clear as her voice laughing through the phone, or her handwriting spilling out a recent adventure in a letter. I mean she was there.

photo from: http://www.fotopedia.com/items/flickr-482019868