I was at a hospital, watching my uncle’s last slipping breath,

trying to ignore the rapping of rain beating against windows, a sign

of dark shadows creeping as the grey clock near a TV

stand ticked, the hands like two lovers falling away from each other.

I don’t remember that much after, only

cold driving nails on one broken wall—

Now, I stand in my kitchen, sinking like water that drains

into a secluded tunnel, letting off those drilling waves

in the back of my head, those slant rhymes of my uncle, a

lost indication of poetry.  As I raise the curtains back

from my window, I’m forced to gaze out at the stark sky, a

reflection back to what I lost some years ago—brown and yellow bottles

of Whiskey and Tequila, tossed in our yard, from the previous

night when my uncle was mad diving, rolling his favorite

lines to trashy blondes and coy brunettes.  Those were the good

old days, I thought, as I abandoned the window, and

walked towards the refrigerator, coming eye to eye with,

liquor bottles on the top rack, then harshly backing away

like the moving wind that waits for another cracking day,

then my heartbeat thumps violently, with a few little trembling

words that haunts the air.  How do I run away from life when gravity

 

My son is 15 now, his voice has changed
into the mere language of stars, and though
he tries to hide it, I know he lies in his bedroom

on that azure bed, spitting game on those girls

of his like a woman losing the grip of her nation.
I stand close to the stairs, sometimes at night,

listening to that funky beats of his, a drifted
page in my eyes, because I’m way past my years
of rocking to the nighttime blues, but

he’s on a new path now, one that spins and spins

like the wheels of a car that circle the daytime skies.

Some days when he comes in from school, I’d take a

glance at him from the kitchen, as he drops his bag

on the floor and plopping on the front couch like I don’t

know what happened in school, and I’d say,

Anything exciting happened in school today?
He looked at me, searching for the right words to say,

Not really, same old, same old, and I’d stare at him again,

before releasing a cool whipped wind beneath

his throggy throat, the one that catches flies on

curtains before they could take off.  He’d beg for mercy,

looking into the silent sky as his guide, but he had to learn

why trees sway at times, while at other times they remain

innocent like sweet humming birds.  I don’t like to talk about

that time too much, because my pulsing breaths were

wearing thin in dim light hours of lies.  A couple of days

or so, he’d walk around the house like a ragged mountain, ready

to close on the falling sky, but he had a lot to understand, and

that boys want to be on those waves of  grown men, still, you

have to go in the right direction.

 

I watch the dog through the screen door,

on his belly barking and wiggling his tail

as if the sun would respond to his call, but

he knows I am his bright sky,

and so I rummage through canned food,

settle on chicken and turkey,

pouring the slick moons of meat into

his bowl as he licks me like a dog bone,

and I rub my fingers through that

furry coat, making me think of

my old cat, looking up at me with its

green eyes like I was the star

that sealed his door, a world

that answered his soft “meow.”

Now, my dog stares at me, curious

wondering what’s going on in my head,

as I go back inside, and walk towards

the kitchen, preparing to cook lasagna,

broccoli, and a honey-polished turkey,

rich lemonade shimmering the air.

I want to lie back on my couch, while

the food whistles on the stove, and

gaze out the windows at my dog,

his life a retelling of words I could

never grasp, his language

resting behind my eyes

 

 

Nobody remembers much about his half-amazed life—but

the devastated weekends of late night hangovers, and

excessive drinking of Gin and Millerlight, until hours

later, kneeling over the toilet seat in the bathroom, vomiting

slippery strips of mashed salad, pepperoni pizza, and burning liquor,

until he passed out on the couch, surfacing for air, then

at other times he’d be rolling on the floor with a couple

of strippers or three, nudging against the backs of chairs,

his hands sliding through skylines like rushing rain

edging against ragged buildings and there’s a slight sound

of wind whizzing outside his home, like trees screaming in

far mountains.  The women’s feet are curled up next to his hairy legs,

their breasts resting on his side like bright red and purple leaves

and their ochre stained G-strings, their strapless shadowed bras,

his ripped boxers, and his pants, all covered in pearly white liquid,

leaking onto the bedroom floor.