Gritty Travelers

Gritty Travelers: This place will never be the same twice

The dunes drift along the horizon

stretched past the eyes’ reach

limitless shifting

the swell of a great wave

a slow, but not frozen sea of sand.

Always moving, the dunes

wait for visitors, for wind and time,

for the requisite momentum

to their constant state of travel.

A small piece of the dunes resides

in the fibers of my living room carpet.

The dunes often travel as stowaways.

They cling to clothes and sweaty skin,

catch on to shoelaces and water bottles.

Sometimes they travel by foot,

slipping into socks to settle

and crunch between toes.

Dunes travel by mouth

by a puff of air—

momentary fly by exhalation;

or wedged between teeth or under

the tongue, for long distance transit.

Many of these gritty travelers are discarded.

Stuck to a shirt or a damp bathing suit,

tossed in with the rest of the laundry

the granules are swept away with the wash,

settling in the bend of a pipe.

From Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes, Empire, Michigan

Smoke burns across the lake’s surface

Chippewa legend says it was a forest fire

that drove the mother bear and her cubs

out from their den, into Lake Michigan.

The great, blue waters could have been the sea,

shaking crests and break neck currents—

the only solace from the flames.

The mother bear was strong. She paddled

without rest, to the bluff of the dunes.

She waited for her cubs,

staring out at the empty and unforgiving waters.

until weak from the glare of the sun,

she fell asleep, the sands covering her body.

One day the bear will awake in a fury.

She will shake the dunes off the horizon

and into the sky.

Revision of Sister Death

Frankly, I think this could still use a liberal chopping. Kill your darlings, as they say. I have a lot of darlings to dice in the near future. Think of it as compost. It needs to be broken down before it is useful. Here's one revision to start off the process of finessing the mess of previously posted material. *edit* Double spacing was not intentional, but I've given up on fixing it.

Sister Death: Margo Kevorkian

Margo,

does history try to forget euthanasia’s

next of kin, grave enabler’s like you,

lost in your brother’s wake

as you reached out to the dying death

like frantic toddlers tumbling in the dark

falling without handrails or walls;

crashing through a house of leaves

never hitting the floor.

You did not talk them off the ledge

when you kissed them good night.

It was usually quiet, but was it gentle?

Did you thread the needle lightly,

with tenderness? Or like an awkward nurse,

did you have to search for a vein,

fishing through fat and muscle

apologizing, this will only sting

but a moment.

Vaguely disappointing

Maybe I need to change my methods, perhaps tell myself that my post is due on Friday, instead of Sunday.

I've never been good with guidelines.

Either way, I'm putting my foot down this morning. No more bullshit, Fragondruit. Free write from the tip top of my head, 15 minutes, no edits, no looking back. Move on and revise later.

Ready? Set? Go:

Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

These people wear

withered lips

suck hard on death sticks,

pretend it's candy.

It's warm now.

No more cupped hands over mouth

or stuffed in pockets,

cigarette gripped in teeth.

These snapping turtles.

These sad souls

smoke outside with

more vibrance than in

the gray months passed.

Pink cheeks through the haze,

happy buzz,

big voice.

We're all here now.

Everyone has their place.

This is theirs.

The corner of Fourth

and Washington;

salt lick for the wicked

for neighbors, workers,

fathers, mothers,

one and all wrong

wronged, loners and

runners all

nightly migrate

and post. These sad faces

hide loss and nerves and

misfortune

smelling like whisky

and wheat beer,

smoke and oak

washed over with sweet

citrus and coriander.

They drink, smoke,

hide and forget,

yet stay together.

Sister Death (running a wee bit late this weekend!)

More on Margo K... think I have a new research project. Because apparently poetry without research is just too spontaneous for this amateur.

Sister Death

I wonder about your face, mostly

why I cannot find a single image.

Is it that history tries to forget

the grave enablers?

Euthanasia’s next of kin?

I looked for your face to see for myself

how you could bear the death and

disposal in your brother’s wake.

How did you process your patients’

pain and hopelessness—

(Like a mother? A soldier?

A dog kicked to follow with dark empty eyes?)

typing and taping away

and not die some yourself?

You reached out to the dying dead

the frantic toddlers tumbling in the dark

falling without handrails or walls;

crashing through a house of leaves

never hitting the floor.

You reached out and plucked them from the fall,

tucked them into white sheets.

(Could it have been gentle?)

You did not talk them off the ledge

when you kissed them good night,

but (at least, perhaps) they went quietly.

As I try to picture your face,

your experienced eyes

I must ask and accept no answer:

Did you thread the needle lightly,

with tenderness? Or like an awkward nurse,

did you have to search for a vein,

fishing through fat and muscle

apologizing, this will only sting

but a moment.

Margo Kevorkian

Choppy. I know. Editing will hopefully take place for this and previous posts in the near future.

Margo,

the steady handed soldier,

the stagehand cloaked in black.

You recorded the interviews

the tales of pain and suffering,

the patients searching for peace.

You were there for the first fifteen

departures, procedures, final sessions--

pick your euphemism, Margo,

it's all the same in the end.

In the end all conditions are terminal.

Your brother, Jack, only agreed when

his patient told him: "There is not

any joy, not any joy in life."

Everything is conditional.

Your brother agreed,

"I know that, I know that."

No joy, not any joy,

but what of your silence, Margo?

Thanatron is Death Machine in Greek.

I found an image of your stone, Margo.

Head stone rubbings have given way

to amateur photographers, internet

historians and genealogists.

I found you buried

in gravestone search engines

death cult databases.

Is it wrong to smile,

discovering you here?

You know better than anyone

what the end looks like--the mess

left behind, the survivors taken

under your wing moments after you

and Jack sent their loved ones to rest.

You helped form support groups in

every town touched by the Doctor

and his Thanatron. You brought them

together after he tore them apart.

He was Dr. Death, but Margo, be true,

you were no Bedside Angel either.

CO2

Carbon Dioxide

just after its fire

has been snuffed

a small twist of smoke

winds upward from

the head of a match.

oxygen becomes CO₂.

exhale.

do not cling to

bad air

do not allow it to linger

mouldering

in the chest.

exhale

and release the

600 muscles that

rack the body.

sink toes,

heels into earth

and realize 600

will never be enough

and no one dies

with air in their chest,

not even bad air.

though you can move

smoke with your hand,

you cannot

capture it.