“All the Lost,” “Autography,” and “Crookedest Street in the World”

Upon waking, you rise into the almost-no-longer dark and step into clothing rendered black and white by the dusting of light at the heavily shaded window.

Upon waking, Carat stretches and yawns, curls into her fur-lined basket, embraces sleep again.

Upon waking, the mothers of Tehran take up the burden of bombardment.

Upon waking, your husband calls softly for the cup of coffee you carry daily to his bedside.

Upon waking, Judy Shepard rises into the work of remembrance and forgiveness.

Upon waking, your mother, gone to her grave these many years—does she wake somewhere skepticism has rendered inaccessible to you?

Upon waking, Sybrina Fulton tends to the Circle of Mothers deprived of children with names like Trayvon.

Has your mother found her way to them? Does she pray for all the lost children?

Upon waking, a woman in Hiroshima, a survivor in her nineties, follows Earth’s rotation into the next day while the sun above your house declares mid-afternoon.

What will we do with the days left us before the blade makes an end of our waking?

Waking, sleeping, time is the harvest.

You live in the curves of your cursive, Mother—

hushed whisper of the fading pages I kept,

easy swoop and glide of your ballpoint pen.

You’re in the loops that shape the news you send,

hushed syllables inscribed on yellowed pages—

a record of feasting and laughter and kinship.

We’re in the loops that furl in the words you fingered

sipping Folger’s freeze-dried after you napped.

Festive laughter clatters, crescendoes, fades.

Where have all the years gone? you write.

You’re sipping coffee with a single ginger snap.

Some days the silent house unnerves you—

years flown, four children grown and gone.

Your letters come. The words bring past days back,

a voice to temper unnerving silence:

decades elapsed since you breathed your last.

Still, your letters bring you back to me,

easy swoop and glide of ink-blue tidings.

Twenty-nine years and counting: while I still breathe,

Mother, you live in the curves of your cursive.

the view from the top

   is vertiginous  dear Balance :

         each careful step : vertiginous   :

        from the foundational

   Latin verb : vertere :

meaning simply : to turn :

inside my inner ear : at the center of my solar plexus :

    fear of turning : losing the self : spinning

       unleashed  : vuhr-tih-jihn-uhs : poised

       at the first syllable : I lean

   toward the second : step down :

stumble at g : vertigo :

curves and curves and curves :

    anterior cruciate ligament stretches :

        resists : resists : threatens :

       I will my steps :  left toe right toe

   pointing downhill : tipping

toward rock bottom :

     my aging body breathes

           toward a single word :

                 persist