(2.9.2009) he said, "take your clothes off and let me steal from you your religion." i was the pudding and he was searching inside for the proof. (2.18.09) No matter how much you prepare yourself, you cannot possibly be ready at the time death occurs. There is the fluttering in the stomach you cannot control. The endless bumping into things. People. Chairs. Thoughts. Emotions. There is no such crash course at all. (2.20.09) We buried Dad today with just enough ceremony that he would have allowed. Police motorcycle cavalcade that saluted me as we walked past, carrying Dad's coffin by my side as though we were young lovers, interlocking hands as we strolled the streets of this quiet New England town. At the graveyard police on horseback, another salute, then gunfire and flag folding (something about the President thanking him for his service in the Air Force which I never knew as part of his identity). Some wind. Some words. A cold winter chill. More words. More wind. More words. And then it was over. It was as though the sky broke open like an egg and all the messy stuff stopped falling out. Even the wind disappeared. And then we parted, the way lovers always do: first the sad separation of the hands in unison, then the glance just past the left shoulder as we faced each other and said goodbye, the bowing of heads as eyes watched feet make their way silently to the car in their own grief-stricken way. Silence never sounded so loud. (2.21.09) And how does one attempt a smile when all the facial muscles have ossified? My father embalmed, and he and I are now one. (2.22.09) i wait to board the plane for this boston-minneapolis flight. and for the first time in the fifteen years i've made my way back and forth—from the salt air of the new england coastline to the silent and vast beauty of the midwest plains—for the first time i feel home pulling me back eastward. and i feel the stretch, rubber-like. in whispers: why does the north wind blow this way? if birds fly south in winter, how does the east ever become their home? muddy rivers flow here; rain falls on top of rain, and summer evenings bring stars, but here they seem much bigger. how does the new england sky do that? there were faces i've not seen since childhood and voices, constantly voices, in the background reminding me that they are still me. no matter where i go, this is the stuff i'm made of: a squirrel running an old stone wall; a featherless bird trying to hide among the bracken. claiming anything else would be heresy. (06.01.09) song for the living (for dad) i. denial the days are beautiful. flax taking in wind taking in sun taking in the rapture of a summer sky. clouds never move when watched closely. there is a hole in the landscape & we fill it with an inventory of countless commodities: fresh rose petals, black & white photographs of uniformed men/bridal-gowned women/jewels seaweed-hidden along the atlantic coast. the days are always beautiful, & the nights live on forever. ii. anger the days were beautiful. soot-covered grass as though it were an inseparable shadow. the umbra of whatever it is that is left over when love no longer breathes. time is nothing but sorry it was ever born because in the end there is no difference between ash & dust: the fist a terrible universe, a curse in itself in air or in pocket, a hinge-rusted vessel by which we access our wrath on those nights that live on forever. iii. bargaining if the days could be beautiful, if the years could roll themselves out like gold carpets, if God himself could put his finger on a pulse & flow life into hungry veins like tributaries following their own current, if red could turn to green come twilight, if we could carry our medals on our shoulders as the world cheers us on, if we could cast our lance at death's runaway steed & strike a blow so hard it separates rider from horse, if this were remotely possible, then this night would last forever. iv. depression is a day that lost its will to be beautiful. a disconnect from those things that green from the very process of greening. photosynthesis— a lesson in history, the eye no longer able to block out the light. the light no longer able to stave off darkness. somewhere in a cave as vast & wide as a mountain beneath the ocean a reclusive cry echoes the same words over & over: this night will live on forever this night will live on forever. v. acceptance the days are beautiful & they are not. they come to show themselves for what they really are: a petri dish where molecules of flesh & dust collide in atmospheric rhythm. yet we feel none of it—we become cubes of ice, nebular particles water-massed & hanging in the air over the landscape in silent submission. the world unfolds, becomes a series of things that live & things that don't: a frozen gaze that now turns to the west. a once-ageless night that no longer lives forever.