she is dancing down the hallway
laughing like the world is made of all the good things
like her favorite flowers and twinkling lights

and god how i wish i could bottle this moment
pull her close and protect her from the harsh reality of heartbreak
when she realizes that not everything is made out of ribbons and glitter

but for now i revel in this moment
watching her twirling down the hallway
thinking that she is my world
that she is full of all the good things

AND THE STONE WAS MADE FLESH

her hair flowed
between naked shoulder blades
like a red waterfall

she turned and her hair
splashed over her left shoulder
like a living creature

she wore a yellow mini
the top of a blue bikini
she went from the sublime to

the ridiculously sublime
broke into my mind
robbed me blind

she gazed upon
a statue with no clothes on
a miracle in marble

the stone
made flesh
but see how she now

the statue
come alive
even to her smile

each curve of her
greater by far
the statue envious of such beauty

Still in your pink sleeper
Poking your smartphone

I watch the raindrops
playing dribble on the patio

Looking over plastic frames
You search through missives

Dark eyes still intriguing
Captivating as our first encounter

Still overwhelming
This urge to embrace

thirty years
since Mark gunned you down
thirty years, passed
like a long sleepless night
that ends with taunting morning light
no brilliant sunrise grandly pronouncing
a glorious new dawn of man
although that would have been your plan
with your entreaties to give peace a chance
and imagine, imagine, imagine

now I kneel in this rain gray park
like a reject from some holy ark
a pilgrim in doleful disappointed pose
after seeing what your earthly brothers chose
was not to imagine a world of peace and love
but to wear reality like a cast iron glove
making mockery of your martyred chants
proceeding like a billion scurrying ants
deaf to your childlike pleas

across the soaked soil where your ashes lay
yesterday and today…and tomorrow
I feel the soggy sorrow
that you would have felt
if you could still see
all the rage of humanity

he replaced the washer,
the refrigerator too

he liked new appliances; they
reminded him of her

especially when he opened the freezer and found
not a pint of her Haagen-Dazs Vanilla

the new washer contained old ghosts as well
for he blasphemed her by washing on hot

a prohibition when she was still here, for fear
of shirts shrinking, she always claimed

he wondered what words of hers would haunt him
when he gutted the wall for a new oven

maybe it would just be the longing for the smell
of cookies baking  (chocolate chip)

the ones she prepared for the grandsons, the day
she took a "quick nap" and never woke up

I had to learn what the word
contiguous meant when I was 26.
We hit all 48 states in nine months,
driving the Ford Ranger in a figure-eight
from East Coast to West and across the Plains.
We stopped midway to work in Salt Lake City.
She bused tables at Little America. I did landscaping.
At night, bodies squeezed together in the bed of the pickup,
America expanded around us, a sweet smell of syrup and gasoline.

The barn door swings open
with a heave of rusted chain,
padlock clanking on timber.

Step inside the barn
and the air is cooler.
Dust motes hang
in shafts of light.
High above you, witness tobacco sticks
tucked into the crossbeams like bones.

The tractor is dead.
But there is a baby doll
propped against the wall.
She has wisps of desiccated hair
and straight bangs that hang
over an empty eye socket.
Her bland face is spidered with cracks.
The ragged hole in her chest—
such an indelicate wound—
reveals a wire skeleton.
Her right hand, missing three fingers,
cannot smooth the tatters of her dress.
Her naked feet are ***** but
undiminished and intact.
She smiles, almost.

The doll watches you watching her.
A wasp lands on her one good eye.

You step toward her through slants of light,
dust settling on your shoulders and shoes.
The metal roof temporarily catches
the shadows of planes and birds and clouds.
As mice scurry beneath canvas drop cloths,
the barn door closes slowly behind you,
pushed by an unexpected breeze.

Many summers ago
you were married in this barn;
it rose up like a cathedral around you—
white candles and the smell of fresh straw,
relatives warm in their folding chairs,
a man playing acoustic guitar, golden rings.

The old baby you see is new,
detritus gathered alongside
dull hacksaws, scraps of lumber,
the mechanics of broken things.

It is time to turn around now.
It is time to walk into the meadow,
wearing your most beautiful dress.
It is time to notice the sun high in the sky,
to feel your heartache cooled as you buzz
between the shadows of tall flowers.

Picture my younger brother,
age nine, supine, sprawled
on the kitchen counter after
that aluminum baseball bat
cracked the top of his head,
while our mother, former ER nurse,
sutured the wound with black thread,
my sister and I pinning his arms
and legs down ******* the Formica
to keep him from writhing away.

I saw my brother yesterday,
now bigger and taller than me,
hair thinning faster than mine,
and upon catching sight of the
white crescent scar, remembered
my mother’s steady hand,
red with blood, stitching skin to skin,
sewing together two moments in time.