by JS Gilbert
Like when your spine aligns with a guest-bed groove,
or you reach the dip you’d thought long lost, forever,
between the dunes of your shoulder blades, or you
dream of grandma and the walks to DQ cherry sundaes and
playing with fridge magnets on the floor and her
cigar box of fragmented Canary, Blue-Green, Green-Blue,
and Mango Tango, and farewelling, engulfing hugs against
her house-coated breasts before you fall into the cold
of the world.
Isn’t that a dream you’d share
with everyone?
The footsteps behind
me weren’t, but were
a leaf skritching in my
wake. Crunchy and curious,
seeking distant piles
to explore, rakes to elude,
summers to mourn,
assuming I was more
adventurous than I am.
My friend’s cousin’s name was Becky. She
lived in Ottumwa, wore sneakers and a ponytail.
Each summer she’d ride the year-end school bell
into town, radiating an aura of balloon
races and farrowing. Once, I think,
she touched my arm.
‘Cecelia’ reminds me of her, still. Not because
she broke my heart, but because I made her laugh.
When I asked the band
what they wanted
from the bar they shouted,
‘Iowa!’, which I took
to mean all the whisky
they had. Phylicia Rashad
offered to pay, but over
my dead REM sleep so
I waved her away yet even so
there she also already was,
lifting a finger for attention
and winking at me, just
as gracious and affable in
my dream as she’d be
in yours.
What’s one more dish to clean,
spill to wipe, errand to run?
Another ache, another
twinge, another throb? If bad
things come in threes then you’ve
stopped counting, which God tried
to tell Job but Job had other
things on his mind like flaming
sheep and absconded camels, not
to mention his son’s leaky roof.
And this was before ultrasounds
and MRIs and sinister masses, so
what else should we expect except
mounting, increasingly specific
woes?
What’s one more dish to clean,
spill to wipe, errand to run?
Another ache, another
twinge, another throb? If bad
things come in threes then you’ve
stopped counting, which God tried
to tell Job but Job had other
things on his mind like flaming
sheep and absconded camels, not
to mention his son’s leaky roof.
And this was before ultrasounds
and MRIs and sinister masses, so
what else should we expect except
mounting, increasingly specific
woes?
Take my bones when I am finished
with them. Legs here-to-thering,
fingers tearing, knuckles cracking,
toes maintaining the balance
of my imperfecting spine. Place
my corpse in the fermenting ground
until the Earth has had its fill, until
the mycelium has eaten well
and spread word of my demise. Age
my bones to usefulness and do
with them as you will. Be-table my femur,
adorn with my ribs and let me
breathe again. Rest my hips atop my feet
in a parody of eternal dance, set my skull
to watch above any sacred thing
or special thing or Tuesday thing.
Add my voice to the calcified choir
somewhere in the back and let me
sing of your life, your worth, your
deeply tethered soul and of the day
you join your voice to mine in
the harmony of the steadfast dark.
‘Nikki Haley…signed Israeli artillery shells with the inscription “Finish Them!” on a Memorial Day visit to Israel.’
The Guardian, 5/28/2024
Fewer things anger me
morely than a passive-
aggressive ‘Please advise’,
leaving me to name
and solve the obvious
because you can’t be
bothered. Here
let me bear that for you,
make your life
easier, simplify my pain
to bullet points and action
items. Even highlight
your part, your role,
your responsibility so that
you are doubly-helped by
me, the adult with lists checked,
bills paid, you, comforted.
And I always sign
my work, affix my name to
assume my portion, my
burden. Yet I also
know how this message will find
you. Anxious, ambivalent, a little
tired. Which is why I’d never presume
to sign my name to your wellness, even
hopefully. Because I know this
will always find you. Here or there.
Gaza or Israel. Email or
ordinance. My name will find
you, whether you are well.
