When she went to sleep
she prayed that a calming peace
would enter her body,
a body bloated with the potency
in her first pregnancy.
The Holy Ghost that she prayed for
swirled in her dreams
like a wispy cloud, golden tendrils
enveloping her with energy and imagination.

Finally she got to sleep
only to be awakened after midnight
by me delivering to her the pain of labor
she shouted to her honey beside her
startling him awake and out of bed
to get her up and grab the suitcase.

Darkness enveloped her
and fear, foreboding and near panic.
By three a.m. she was in Our Lady of the Lake delivery room
and I was on my way out of her
to greet what would be a clear cool morning
for July in southern Louisiana.

Little did she know what she would endure
from this screaming squirming little boy…

still habitually in motion
eight decades later.

In this space between Middle C
an octave above and below
I hear you climbing up into me
settling soft and slow
between the tense downer of last night
and my early morning need
for sleep and the wide feather of peace.
The piano plays on
into the awakening dawn
where stars are gone
and the summer sky is born.

I’m wrapped in a netherworld
between fear and urgent turmoil
a shady region of late twilight
on the edge of dreadful night
what to do with the light.

Like the nightingale whose song
brings pausing, sadness, and hope,
blinking in a landscape of plains and *****
sadness of a creative life’s ending
a blending of sand and the hand of God.

My gut clinched in a tempest
rowing unknowing for shining sky.

It's a bad **** day here in
Texas.
The winds are hot and it's
starting to rain.  

I cant find my coat.  It got
lost at your funeral.  Now
my dry cheeks are wet
and i cant see where to go
The cracks in my face
are artificial.

The frogs are jumping after
phantom bugs, drugged
on the arid silence

I dont know how to do this.
Alone is an art form. No one
said it was Easy.  Willie's song
playing in my mind like a
jumping blue frog in the desert
that has come inside

I crossed the line too late.
All of your self is in the
pillow i no longer use.

I think i will read through
the afternoon. I can always
Cry in bed.

Tomorrow is another anniversary.

Caroline Shank
1.9.2022

I didn't shed a tear until
yesterday.  Your memory
pulled me back
years of
the flood of
the days and nights,
the children, rogue
warriors in our battles
their  children confused
by the confessions,
the chest pounds
of sorrow.

Where you remain
under the guise
of husband.


Caroline Shank
July 10, 2022