Longing, they say, because desires are full of endless distances

                        

                        June

I.

When they asked for a memory

to be read at the gathering of family

and friends who have no real connection

except you,

I discovered I didn’t know you.

II.

Cousin Lisa has been stealing your things.

She hoards them, rifling

through mounds of magazines and old boxes

to find the photographs, tax forms and receipts

that you tucked inside like bookmarks.

Lisa showed me one photo,

her fingers clenched white against the frame,

as though she was sure I would steal it

out of her hands, hide it under my dress

and flee the room. It’s of you and Henry—

young, reclining on the grass, your arms

folded, the bottoms

of your shoes showing. It is colored

in patches—the sky is a chemical blue,

the fluffed leaves

of the trees are vibrant green

and your cheeks are pink

and lovely

and alive.

III.

He was a soldier and there was a dance

he asked you

just you.

You were seventeen.

You had six kids:

Vickymickeydickeyandycandyrobby—

and then he left, a string

of tobacco smoke trailing as you closed the coffin.

IV.

I often visited your house

for tea choked with cream and sugar,

and ice cream served in cow-shaped bowls.

Every week you offered it.

Every week I sat on the braided rug in the living room

and picked at the red carpet underneath.

Then I got too old to sit on the rug

and too old

to look for blue stones

in the grass of your front lawn.

V.

At the funeral the little kids sniffle

and bury their heads in their mother’s fleshy arms.

Lisa sobs like she’s the only one there

who’s lost you.

Memories are read, and stories

are told, and I discovered I never knew you

beyond snippets of story

and old photographs now withered

in their frames.

Stained Glass: A Self-Portrait

I.

You are fractured

pieces held together by threads

of glue and lead

like stained glass.

Sparks of blue, gold, magenta

fly from your fingertips, splatter

onto canvas, morph into cursive

and type. Your left hand

is a pink rose, and you write

with your paper sideways,

and for some reason

people think that’s interesting.

You just see sparks.

Sparks of thought

and image and feeling,

only expressed in bursts.

II.

When you see the field next to Zion lodge

you see Georges Seurat

and the isle of la Grande Jette

where most people see a picnic spot

and a wrangled old tree.

You see insects in automobiles

and dragons in semi-trucks.

You see people alone

in movie theaters,

in coffee shops,

in cars,

and you feel for them,

mistake your loneliness

for their loneliness—

You see when you don’t want to

and you see different. Everything

is alive and everything is moving

and everything feels

ache. Especially you.

You, who wailed in pain when your sister

is the one who fell and scraped her knee.

You, who chokes tears at the very beginning of movies

before anyone has passed away or abandoned

something. You, who is so willing to take on other’s pain

when you’re already full to bursting with _______

that you will never admit.

III.

You are a silent Atlas

And your arms are getting tired.

Vegas

I. Strip

Sharp angles of casinos—

the new ones, with cold, metallic facades

and straight edged peaks that could cut

an airplane in half—scrape

into the skyline,

tower above the flat land it rests on.

The asphalt below is barely seen
because carsandpeoplearepacked

onto the street like sardines,

bodies moving, burrowing into caverns

of free space

free from jostling

pushing shoving moving

walls of bodies bumping against each other,

blood touching blood

in the anxious frenzy of Paradise

city in the middle of the desert.

II. Casino

Inside the lights and sounds and smells

of gambling and smoking and sweating

blend, muddy together so that everything

resembles the garish carpet

that casinos are known for.

Some have indoor gardens

and animal exhibits

that charge five hundred dollars

to pet a baby lion

as others watch jealous

through the thick glass

that flanks the exhibit.

Some have plants and rocks

nestled next to slot machines.

Some of them have sand, mimic

beaches. All o f them are mirages

crammed together

nonsensical in the desert.

There is nowhere that is quiet.

The air vibrates with electronic, jarring sounds

of machines made to take money,

and there is so much metal.

Metal that corrodes with rust

fills the air

tastes like cigarette smoke

alcohol fumes

coins.

So many coins

and so many

people who want to win

but never will.

III. Us

We are here

because it is two hours away

from the little city

we’ve come to call home.

I want to get out

I say, and so we pack the car

drive through a quiet desert

into the busy city full of lush lights

sounds

people.  They are crazed, desperation

dripping from their hair—women

who want all the wrong men, beggars

who only want booze, street performers

who only want cash. We want

to get away, so we walk

hand in hand down the strip

in the shade of buildings

that stick out from the flat land

like a disheveled mountain range.

We meander through tourist traps

filled with smoke and bad lighting.

We wander through casinos with lush gardens

Surrounded by desert.

We walk through a city full

of contradictions.