Omen

In mid-August I dreamed dark dreams of loss and grief,
tears and pain so deep I almost couldn't breathe
and I woke up wondering
where the angels were?

He lived inside me then.

I'd feel his sharp movements
and convince myself everything was okay.
Tried to steer myself away from the warning
while I folded baby clothes and cleaned.

And kissed by the lips of God, I forgot.

A week before the end, I stumbled upon a book
and devoured it-- the first book I ever read about loss.
Sleep was elusive, so I read every night.
I studied Angels, tried to find peace.

And admired the tiny baby shoes I had gathered.

Every Saturday night, for years
I mourned his weekly anniversary.
My empty arms dripping with the chalice of my tears
and the awful ache of my own misery.

Forgotten by God and the angels.

Hands


If your hands were sand dunes they would be exquisite.
Sepia browns, wrinkles and lines,
maps of something unknown.
If your hands could talk, what stories would they tell?
Of love, grief, pain?

Ripples, patterns of wind and water
constantly changing and eroding,
thousands of crevices
stretched across time.

Hands the color of Tuscon
and old sage,
Saddle tan
and memories of gold.

Rituals

Today is the sort of day
where I would be
sitting in the cemetery
underneath the old Juniper tree
next to the stone winnie the pooh..

Listening to the sad songs the birds sing
and watching for deer tracks and signs of rabbits.

I would be thinking some thoughts to him
and hope he was listening.

I'd brush off his headstone again
and leave a coin or a stone
and then grab his stuffed Pooh bear
and pour some momma love into him,
to tide him over until next time.

But I've learned that our connection
is not lessoned by miles.
So I think my thoughts to him
and I know he hears me.

Lessons

I once stared at the ocean
and tried to find that part of myself that was swept with the tide
but it was just like the lottery--
my luck is rotten.

In Newport we clung together by the fire
and tried to remember what love was
and what it wasn't.
We camped under the stars and watched the September sky.
We were alone, together.

I counted waves and memorized the sand.
And waited. We both did.

Inquiry

Is it that poets automatically have hard lives
or do hard lives create poets?

Hiding

I've run away from the truth
for years
hidden around corners
and behind trees
in a bizarre game of tag.

I thought I was winning.

I dropped a few hard words off at times
like death and acceptance
but some wouldn't hop off me,
like rage and guilt.

I fooled myself into thinking I was ahead.

And I'm still hiding behind trees
and over hills
because it is comfortable now, at least.

Lost

I was there the whole time
and yet there are years that I can't remember anymore.
I shut down
in order to survive
the guilt that was always there lurking.

Some people never get "missing" signs made up for them.

Wiped Out

How could I get stuck in a life
so full of complications and insanity?
Not quite middle-aged, my head is slow
and my body is so tired all the time.
I hear myself saying things like,
"After I do the dishes we can look through the business plan."

And I bore the hell out of my own self.

I used to be the girl who got drunk and danced in the fountain in front of student health.
I used to make people laugh.

In this dry, dusty, sticker-filled place, my sons body has turned to bone and dust in that little wooden box we approved. We buried him in a warm little suit, even though it was late August, because we knew the snow would be heavy and somehow just couldn't bear the thought of him lying there cold and alone. As crazy as I knew it was, I wanted to stay out there with him. Taking those first steps away from his coffin on the day of his funeral, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

Part of me is still out there with him.

I reconstructed a life, not because I wanted to, but because I looked at my then four year old daughter, and knew that I had to. For her. At first it was all pretend, but I have gotten better at it over the years. I am mostly okay. But there are still moments when I will catch myself watching a little boy and wondering if Dylan would be like that now. That part of it never goes away.

Dylan wound up with two headstones. Both were carved by his Great Grandmother. The first stone just says "Dylan" and that sat on his grave for a few months. She eventually carved a second stone which included his last name and the day he died. When the second stone was taken out to Tumalo, we wound up taking the first stone home. It has since been moved from apartment to apartment and currently sits near our front door. I suppose it is an odd looking thing to have, but we were at a loss as to what to do with it. So it sits in our little garden area. A stone reminder of a little boy who never got a chance to fly a kite or to count the stars with us.

For Jason

You carried October in your back pocket
and taught me about the night sky
while we laughed
over brutal, dark, things that few would understand.
You knew me.

You are always secretly kind
to little kids and old people alike
and strong
in ways that I am weak.

You carried grief for me when I needed a break.
You stayed.
Fought. Loved. Me.

Quietly, strongly you.
And I am lucky for it.