The nuns take us down
to the beach
from the nursing home.

Anne is in her wheelchair
looking at the other kids
paddling or playing ball
or sitting gazing out to sea.

I stand beside her,
watching the gulls
fly overhead.

Aren't you going
in to swim?
She asks me.

No, I don't swim.

I used to swim,
until they took off my leg.

Can't you swim
with one leg?

Not easy,
but I guess
I haven't tried.

Sister Bridget throws a ball
to the boys;
another nun
lifts her habit
and tiptoes
into the sea
with some girls.

Do you your parents
let you swim?

Don't want to talk
about them.

I look at her
with her stern gaze
and dark hair.

Why not?

Because I don't;
talk about
something else, Kid.

Do nuns marry?

She turns and looks at me.

Of course not;
they take vows
of celibacy.

What’s that?

She sighs.

Means they don't
have ***
don't have kids
and so on.

I frown.

Not ever?

Better not
or they're
for the high jump.

High jump?

In trouble, Kid, trouble.

What's having *** mean?

She raises her highbrows,
looks at me pityingly.

Where do you live, Kid?
Hasn't your old man
told you about
the birds and bees?

No, he doesn't talk
about nature at all;
he talks about films
and the theatre
and actors and such,
but not nature
study things.

She looks out to sea;
gulls fly overhead noisily;
I stare at her one leg
sticking out
of her short red skirt.

There are males and females
and to make babies
they have to get together
and do certain things.

What certain things?

Well kissing is one thing
and after that,
things kind of
lead onto other things.

I frown;
I recall a girl in school
kissing me,
but I don't recall
any other things
happening,
but I don't tell Anne that.

I see,
I say.

Go swim, Kid,
go swim.

I wander down
to the edge of the beach
and peer out to sea,
hoping no other girl
tries to kiss me.

Yours was the bed
at the far end
of the ward.

Seems darker now;
the end of it all.

I walk that path
to your bed
in my dreams;
wanting to reach
you again;
wanting to be able
to hold you tight
night after night.

Dreams betray,
they never fulfil;
never bring up
what they promise.

I see you there
puffed up and breathless;
hear your words
fight through
a tightness of lungs
already closing down
(although
we didn't know).

I felt along your arm
and touched,
sensing the puffiness
of skin,
the tired look
in eyes,
the fight for words.

I asked you questions,
sought for an answer
as a father does,
looking for the purpose
of a hurting son.

I argued with the nurse,
pointed out
your fading state,
your puffed up
skin and frame,
how you could
hardly hold
the mug in hands,
barely talk
through hard to
catch breath.

Unknown
to us then:
the start of death.

As the Walmarts
turn the world
into a *******
by supporting unequal opportunity
through
the support
of illegal immigration
They become
as corrupt
as the politicians
who allow such actions

Jon you love to teach with your mouth.  Please start teaching with your ears.

I am only one person.

Jon I know you care too much. Please don't ever stop.

I don't want to burn out.

Before you go to bed you think too much. Make those your most important. For they will be the ones you remember forgetting.

I never write down the things I wish to.

Jon breathing comes simple. Your mothers lungs were not as fortunate. Don't abuse the airbags in your chest.

I can't do this

Without your fingertips you wouldn't know what amazing feels like. So touch the lives surrounding you.

I have too many calluses.

You were given a heart in one piece. Stop convincing yourself it's broken.

I found hope.

Jon your dad left you for a reason. You are a man because of it. Now chest up like you mean it.

I miss him.

Jon she is here. In the snowflakes on your tongue. Sunshine in your steps. And in the muscle that helps you swallow the loneliness of her absence.

I dream of a life with her in it.

Jon you have one back. Please stand up for something worth your time here. Do it with pride doused in confidence.

I don't know my purpose.

Jon you are purpose.

Anne rubbed the stump
of her amputated leg.

She sat in her wheelchair.

I sat opposite
wondering what
it must be like
to have one leg.

Pull your skirt down,
the nursing nun said,
it's indecent
to show off
your leg like that.

Anne stared at the nun.

My leg hurts,
she said,
rubbing it,
helps it.

Where does it hurt?
the nun asked.

Everywhere
even the toes hurt,
Anne said grumpily.

The leg
has been amputated,
so how can it hurt?
the nun said,
now pull the skirt
over the stump,
Benedict doesn't
want to see
your stump.

I didn't mind,
but I said nothing;
I looked at the nun's
black habit,
her thin features,
her pointed nose,
thin lips.

Anne pulled the skirt
over her stump slowly.

It's my stump,
I should be able
to show it
to whom ever I want,
anyway, Benny likes
gawking at my stump,
he does it
all the **** time.

The nun gazed
at Anne in silence;
then at me.

Your manners
need to be brought
into line, young lady,
if you
were at my old school,
you would learn manners
or else.

Anne sat back
in her wheelchair.

But I’m not
at your old school,
I’m in a nursing home
after the butcher’s job
the doctors did
on my leg,
she said.

The nun's features stiffened.

I looked at Anne
and her tilted head
and the hidden stump.

There are many
complaints about you,
the nun said,
from other children
and the other
sister nuns;
we will report you
to the nursing home
authorities,
the nun said.

Anne said nothing,
but looked
at the swings
where other children
played.

I sat looking
at the nun,
her hands hidden
in the pockets
of her habit.

She walked off stiffly
across the green grass.

How about her,
Kid, huh?  

I gazed
at the walking off nun.

Guess she was
a bit annoyed,  
I said.

So what, Kid,
who gives a cat's ***
what they think or say?

I shrugged.

Push me to the beach,
she said,
get me away
from these penguins, Kid,
off to the sea.

So I pushed
the wheelchair down
the avenue of trees,
anything for Anne,
anything to please.

As the wind whistles
through the remaining leaves of the trees
Her eyes gazed in with a yearning

The biting chills creep into her sleeves
Her cheeks' veins tinged with green and blue
Instantly, they lose their rosy hue
Coiling her toes underneath her ragged shoes
She felt safer as she pulls her legs tighter to her feeble body

Too early, even for the rooster's songs in the morning
Hurriedly, she rushes into the pavements
Stumbling empty trash bins in the snowy covered cement
And along the streets, she awaits for the gents
Not the ladies, for they are miffed just by her presence

In her pocket, her trusted friends
A shoe wax, a brush and a small towel
Far from the ladies cloak of vanity and jewels
She took her brush and greets them
Giving all her might in every stroke,
she mimics a healthy bloke
With her fragile arms she delighted and amused the folks

They gave her a penny
All the angels wishes she has plenty
All those shoes, although they are leather,
with the glint of the sun, they shine like feathers
But in her eyes, they glimmer like rainbows
She was lost in the colors

Suddenly, she was struck by a heavy blow
Awakened by her terror
In a dark veiled room,
with lustful eyes
Three men with merciless arms
She felt the cold cement on her back
and how these hands creep into her sack
They covered her mouth with a towel
Frantic tears flowed to her cheeks
As they stroke her hair with her shoe brush
She tasted the lump in her throat
She closed her eyes and swallowed her crushed soul

And only the winter wind hears,
the laments of these restless child
With a yearning
As it smothers the barren trees
of her lost dreams



-Shiny Shoes, Margaret Austin Go

My daughter called today crying, and said
"I miss you daddy, when are you moving closer?"

Any other day

I would just tell her "I'll be there soon, baby"
but those words seized up in my throat
and refused to pour from my lips

On most days, I would tell her
"Baby, Sometimes you have lay the foundation,
before you can build the house" and her
sleeping on the floor and giving me her bed to sleep in
or giving me the 5 dollars that she had saved from her allowance
isn't a viable option (though a heart like her's makes a father proud)

but today

Today I was three seconds
from melting down, the process
signaled by tears that formed like lava
quiet pools meant to renew, gathering at the corners
of these weathered eyes, and it took all the strength I had
not to curl up in the fetal position and close my eyes
until the world turned black

I held everything inside for a few moments longer
just long enough to let her know
that I love her and to say goodbye
I realized at that moment that I had waged this war far too long
and losing a battle like this was not the end of the world, so today  
I held up a white flag in surrender, and gave in

There's something about crying, it's like hitting the reset button
it buys you a few more days before the next breakdown
before the next time life tries to break you
So I cried in my car, alone....

*because today she needed to see strength
and not the cracks in my armor.

lead only,
read only,
craft yourself a better poet,
after you have crafted yourself
a better being

leaders are dragged to the fore

selected and elected,
pushed and pulled

be wary of those who shout
and boast
Follow Me,
for they think not of you,
they think only of the me in us,
their glory in your gore

do not follow me,
I shall not follow you.

let us each lead by example
and upon the shoulders
of our fellows will we be lifted
spontaneously combined, but not combusted

then, especially then,
go quietly inside yourself amidst the haste

for fellowship endures,
but fame fleeting,
and the adorers will soon flee
to the next prince of promises,
and when to the ground you slide,
slipped from their tilting shoulders,
be unsurprised