His horse whinny’s while waiting outside
the church with the blue cross and tin roof.

The loyal herding dog panting on the corner,
listens to the lulling cows in the pasture,
heels for the hand signal to start the gather.

In the center of the town square,
a marble angel atop a high stone column,
inches below a cross of electrical lines,
offers benediction for the gathered congregants.

Beyond, gray rumbles over  stretches of white clouds.
The ranch house below is abuzz with the sounds of pans
hitting a wood burning stove, the chant of prepping cuisine
and trail cooks praying loud long remembered recipes.
In the lake, just beyond, a black figure paddles a row boat.

The blue door of the church swings open and  
a congregant passes through holding a purse full of oats,
an offering for the horse to follow closely behind.
Two sharp finger snaps and the dog falls in beside.
The cows herd against the pasture’s barbed wire fence.

A pine coffin emerges with a white  cowboy hat on its lid.    
The hat’s old dusty brown band has been replaced with a  
synthetic new one, steam cleaned and pressed for today.
The lulling, whinnying, barking all the giddy-ups commence.  
The first drop falls from the sky, the start of a thousand tears. The last drive of so many last drives has finally begun.

Lallo assembles the town in his head
all in shades of green, white and gray—
grass, walks and streets  scarring  stories
on the old sacred hills
of high steel huts
with Bianco Carrara walls and long halls
filled with plains of  baize tables, silver machines
and nightmares of blue cavalry.



Lallo is a Native American Kiowa name meaning “little boy.”

Bianco Carrara is considered, both in Italy and abroad, the Italian marble par excellence. This whiteish-gray stone is extracted from the Apuan Alps in Carrara where there are the most known millenary tradition quarries in the world.

Baize— a coarse, typically green woolen material resembling felt, used for covering billiard and card and gaming tables.

Blue Calvary refers to the color of the uniforms of the  U.S. army soldiers from 1830-1890. Many Indian massacres and force relocations to reservations were carried out by these blue U.S. Army regiments

The eye feels the light,
the lens knows the truth:

The children silent
under a blue tarp
amongst the rubble—

their little backpacks
still on their backs
offering the hope they
still might stand up

then, the beat—
and the realization
that will never happen.

You want
to look away
yet you can’t.

You must
look closer.

You must
look for longer.

Again and again you
must be the essential,
indisputable witness

to things no human
being wishes to see—

The line of strollers
left at Przemyśl station by
fleeing mothers carrying
their infants in their arms,

a less brutal
more hopeful image
connecting in solidarity

mothers divided  
by geography
and circumstance.

And yet, there
is the uncovered
mother and child

who died face up
in the square amidst
the brightest sun,

the ****** pregnant
mother being evacuated
on a stretcher

who stop you
in first gaze
and mid-breath,

who demand
you to act, demand
you to respond,

when you see the mass
graves of Mariupol

and know you can
only think of
those of Babi Yar.

Oceans are formed from
the dropping of our tears.
and in it we must all drown,
knowing only the cold
and the slow drifting
away of our flesh.

We watch our fathers  
live extraordinary lives
but die ordinary deaths.

It sinks our hearts down
in the gush of a thousand
memories past and
memories to be named,

into expectations
of what was and
was suppose to be,
all the “if onlys…”
of our sadness

until we hate him for it,
creating new deserts
with every gasp
until we are alone
and stranded
on our own oasis—

with our tears streaming
down our faces and
in puddles at our feet,
shouting in pretense
that our feet are bone dry,
warm and comfortable—

kicking and dancing in
that holiest of puddles
until each droplet
raises off the ground
and touches our skin,
moves across our bodies—
and we are oh so so
grateful for its touch

and the life lesson that
father was teaching
us how to die all along.

Stardust,  
the hardest thing to hold on to,
forms our guardian  angels,
the ones that sway us
to our favorite tree,
settling each branch
in a sugary light.

We scamper
towards it,  all the dust
of sun and star reflecting
golden in our faces,
adorned in the
red and white regal robes
of our younger self.

God particles
surround us,
their soft collisions
cooling on our skin,
filling us with dreams
of things we may
never know again.

For now,
we fly on our
given golden wings
into our angel’s sway,
for they called us little birds
and we believe their very word.

We soared
with them in their heaven,
pausing only briefly
on a branch of sky
to sit and cuddle together,
whispering how they
value us in our ears,
their gift to us held tight.

From
the farm shed
our parents call us
and we settle on
the vernal, yellow
nimbus of earth for
one last celestial dance—

waiting
and knowing the empty pair
of red and white dance shoes
they gifted us, that are sitting
on the floor like a callus,  
will someday be given a
reason to move once more.

Soon, all I know will die,
                be buried or burnt
                in the bonfire,
        lost to senses and thought,
                      become un-
                          known.

            I will fall to my knees
            and become a turtle
                carrying my home
                    on my back.

                    If I cry out,
              who will hear me?  
            Who will
                          know
                            me,
                    when everything
                          known
                          is gone?

After, the awe returns with less shock.
A father lives in a quiet unannounced moment.
At his celebration of life
service all the children wear black leather.
They refuse to die, be strangers,
vow to know their names, remember their world.
The sound of traffic on the way back home leads them
to a smelly bar open this cold night.
The sirens fade pass for the party inside.
The balcony holds and holds.
Whatever war there is
it will not arrive this night.
They will likely never forget
all this dancing through vintage songs,
dancing again and again.
—And there it is. There it is—
Everything they’ve given up
to stay here and find more.