your death and therefore mine
are real in pictures from
that Spring.

a patchy pale skull is not really
”fuzzy”
and I miss the eyebrows more
in the remembering.

your arms are filled with our
baby boy’s
fleshy radiant potential
such stark contrast in rearview.

I kept out your pain
with a wall
of new dad
and charming dutiful service
that looked so good
to the rest of the world.

you were alone.
you were so alone.

Some pieces of you
Follow me around all day
Can’t be the first time
~
Although sharply cast
And perhaps tightly knitted
You might let me in
~
Womb-like, but this nook
Lacks a sweet ingredient
The slide of your thigh

in Argentina
the name for *******
is
“la bombacha”

but with the accent
of Che
it leaves the lips
“Bom-ba-ja”

and it sounds as sweet
as they
look
on thin
brown hips

the dawn breeze rises cool and soft
up from the golden ripples
of the Little North Santiam River.

past the sword ferns
yarrow
thimble berries
just ripening in late July.
through the fierce Himalayan blackberries
who need a trim.

over the cedar deck where we ate
grilled wild salmon and coleslaw
with our kids last night,
soaked in the softness
of our relaxed vacation bodies.

that silky air slides into our bedroom,
fills the space with the vigor
of a thousand spawning salmon.

our legs tightly entwined.
torsos pressed.
skin moist with sweat

these bodies fit together
even better
now with their
scars
sags
creaks.
proud flesh testifying
to grief and mileage.

teaching us our glorious human limits.
wisdom offered only through
life’s sharp blows and tears.

 
you open to me.
generous as always.
take me as I am.
with my vulnerable and volatile parts,
imperfect.
you welcome and entertain them all
as honored guests,
cherished.

we sink into the embrace.
merged for the moment.
the lists and logistics and decisions
dissolve.
and there is only us.

Walking the ruts on the Historic
Santiam Wagon Trail, I split
the stories of sky scraping
Douglas firs.  Alders and vine maple shed
their leafy weight of early Fall.

The brown state attraction sign boasts
a sincere Conestoga.   A sturdy team
in a purposeful westward arch.  What
benign heroic ambition.  Divine inevitability.

Small pox.
Wounded Knee.
Boarding schools.

I wonder how the sign sits in the eyes
of a Kalapooya walking these woods.  Or
a Nez Perce or Siletz?

Like a ******* in Tel Aviv?  A machete
in Kigali?

But the Siletz don’t have an air force
or UN peace keeping troops.

There you go again, digging around
in the fly-covered entrails, looking
for the undigested piece of gristle
your mother forgot to cut off your steak
when you were 6.  All the while
the untanned hide sits rotting in the sun.

There are a few bare patches.
Scars from a recent rut?
Two holes where the arrows entered
the flank and lodged in the lungs.

Its takes forever to work
the skin soft with the brains.
Fingers raw, arms tired,
and Christ…the smell!
But it might keep you warm
in the lodge this winter.