Her face wears anger, daring you
to look into her eyes and offer “hello”
the only things left to lift her to standing
are guilt and tears held in place daily
by repeated phone calls to her children

Neighbors are uncertain what to say
everything changed when her husband died
tinnitus of lonely continually ring
guilty for feeling angry that he left her
she always drinks alone now

I brought her some dinner on cafeteria china
unbreaded fish that she wanted for lent
She thinks people are laughing at her.
her eyes are brown and mostly terrified
crying out for someone to see her

Standing there, in her soft, white sweater
head drenched in tears and apologies
anger exchanged for compassion
I hugged her tightly for a good long time
so she would know that I meant it

Wading through the mire and sinkholes of contingencies
I move gingerly, quietly, gasps merely whispered
upholding propriety and pragmatics of
housing association bylaws
enough to make me consider mowing my own lawn
but humans are human, co-exist as they say
And although I detest your husband's cigarettes
I am quite sure blowing smoke back
down the air vent would not be as effective
as your decibel oblivious obnoxious self, imitating my lustful voice
I am a reasonable woman, truly a lady, preferring mature consultation
But the fact is, honey, if you imitate me again
when summer air re-invents lingerie season
the two of you might want to go outside for that smoke
because you haven’t heard anything yet

He told me that his father had been murdered
I picked the wine with the purple bird
and a beak shaped like a cork *****
ran into an old boyfriend at the liquor store
because life can be random with our emotions
his beard was already taking shape
one year of mourning marked by his son
it felt like a social gathering, looking out of
my window, how I had the best view in town
then, how the hospital below was excruciating
how his shirt had been covered in his father's blood
how he had not been able to talk to anyone
because he needed to be strong for them
how Dad had tried to bargain with his killer
and that image was giving him nightmares
he just wanted everything to feel normal again
a friend and neighbor
one glass of red
shoveling dirt until the casket was covered
his buddies were waiting at some guy's apartment
a helplessly sad hug goodbye
he smelled like Aveda, although I didn't mention it
how humans can walk and talk while dreaming nightmares
subliminal messages between the living and the dead

The sun was shining and I was free and warm,
chasing little yellow butterflies
alongside the garden where my mother was working,
a source of food for our family
along with factory pay and Saturday night band gigs
with bare feet and lilacs I rose above it,
watching myself, a small child caught up in her world,
thoughts and music floating with purpose
uninterrupted wondering if there was another
version of me doing the exact same thing
at that exact same moment,
in China, in India, in Africa,
although I did not know the names of such places,
I knew the pictures of dark skin and brightly colored
clothing, from the Encyclopedia Britannica's
prominently positioned in the
bookshelf, center of our living room
and it seemed that I could feel the other “me’s”
that we knew each other and spoke via the
sound tunnels created by earth worms
and the encyclopedia girls seemed happy too,
simply to be alive, dancing to their songs  
yet there seemed to me another, quasi Diane,
this one not so different, nor so far away,
but she was beyond my grasp, and unable to hear me,
and I felt a vivid, deep longing for her,
eventually, after minutes of chasing, the butterflies
could no longer be found, remembering reality
I was sad for a moment, but I imagined that
one must have fluttered off
to that other little girl
through the hole in the air that I could not see
and I smiled, hoping she would be able to catch it.

Glistening coffee eyes deeply
peering through mounds of rich, bearded head
disarmingly kind, evoking trust
the look of a sorrowful past, he
graciously smiled and unhurriedly spoke
taken aback, taking me seriously
“No one has ever asked for that song
it has never been recorded
I am surprised you even know it.”
For a few seconds we looked, but said nothing
for this moment felt somehow large
maybe they could play it the next time in town
a song of his brother’s fight to stay alive
we could not have known that in  
the months to follow,
“cures” would shear the head
of this Lamb too
and I would send his own words
back to him for courage:
“Pay no mind to the vultures
and the vultures will fly off again”
I wonder, if, upon hearing the news
he recalled this exchange at a bar in MN
and it gave him chills like it did to me

I told the man
from the cremation society
yes, you can use the front door
Miss Mary was a lady
and a lady does not
slink out the back
as if dying were
something of shame

Resting on a stack of
original vinyl’s
a cowboy hat of black felt
the dresser was blonde with gold handles
a collection common in the 1960’s
a small turn table, red handkerchiefs
harmonica, guitar picks and cigarette papers
a diorama of his life
as kids, we would pull out the blue song folder
and sing Your Cheatin’ Heart
into an empty microphone stand
the aroma of rosin and pipe tobacco
guitar cases and Fender amps we dare not touch
when the babysitter’s boyfriend, one night
played Hey Good Lookin’ on the record player
I shot after him like a bear cub
my heart racing in my throat
saying I’m going to tell my Daddy!
a picture I drew found its place by
his fiddle, the one that
sits in my closet today, someday,
I will learn to play Lovesick Blues
because every time I hear that song
my dad is wearing his hat
tapping his feet
and singing like ol’ Hank Williams