This is the day that I became
Untethered
When the tight focus of clarity
Unraveled
I am drifting further away
Anchorless
Even with both feet on the ground
Uncoordinated
Watching the play of my life
Unscripted
An extra in the background
Uncredited
To real to be real
Unconscious
These are the days that I am
Untethered
Inches above the earth
Unworldly
I don’t think I’ll come back
Down
I saw his picture in the paper, a handful of years after I brushed the hair
From his eyes and held his hand as we ran down the stairs, papers hastily
Stowed in fraying backpacks; the lecture over, smartest of the semester
The quietest smile, the worst handwriting; he shaved his head for charity, once.
Left the holes in his jeans unmended. Wore his glasses in class and
In the dark at the movies. Come on, he would say, race you. He always won.
Dance with me, he would say, run with me, sing with me. Be with me.
Tell me your dreams.
I saw his picture in the paper.
He didn’t look like he had changed, but I never could keep up.
It ends with the lights out,
When the flowers curl into themselves
And breathe out the night,
Thread me a daisy chain and lay it across my pillow;
A bucket full of stars upended across the garden,
Kisses marked in spring fast grass,
Wed me, bed me
Pick me a posy and pluck the petals around the sun,
He loves me, not for the first time
And never tell me it’s over
Who would want to know that this is our final touch?
Scatter the flowers across my skin;
Daisies sing so many songs
To quiet for us to hear
Bend your head down to the ground and
Let their petals brush away your tears.
After the war
We don’t talk
Of then,
It’s only now
We pay lip service
To the daily ins and outs
And ups and downs
Of pushing back
The coverlets
And getting dressed
Reminding ourselves
To smile
And greet strangers
On the street,
Politely nod
Tip a hat to
The house where I grew
Is now an empty pavement
Rubble swept away
I cannot show our children
The walls I climbed
Or the corner store
Where I spent my pennies,
You won’t speak
Of your days away
They are there
When you are not,
Even as you sit
By the evening fire
A thousand stories
Left untold
Committed to cold seas
And far shores,
We knew no heroes
Only survivors
The fading ribbon left in a dresser drawer
A thanks for taking part,
A photograph taken
Like its subject
When they were
Beautiful and young
Forever twenty-one,
Souvenirs pieced
With everyday clutter
It’s not that we remember
It’s that we can’t forget.
Conversations in Concrete 