Community Room Memorial

300 lbs of sinew, he collapsed
on concrete, a sudden streak
of blood on the sidewalk. No one knew

what took him or what put him on the ward,
a locked life didn’t suit him. He needed a field
for his towering tai chi, his lumbering decorum,

origami boxes, cranes, stars. We couldn’t name
his demons but felt their whip and chase when
his eyes dulled, when he lost his skipping step.

That autumn afternoon, the sun refused us.
Our James Brown fanatic wailed, piercing
falsetto, He was a good man & I looooved him.

A poem about bridges, no passage over, not a single
metaphor could warm the clutch and jitter of two dozen
folding chairs. This endless gray, his smile like the sky 

You look happy today.

A woman named Cinderella stood, braced
for her outsized acapella. She trembled hard
a beat or two, his whispered affirmation 

Yes Ma’am.

5’2”, she grew, she soared. Eye on the Sparrow
she flew, her high notes, our Whitney. His hand, steady
on her shoulder. A slice of sun, a gentle roar, more tissues.

Darcy Smith reads: “Community Room Memorial”

Master Key

Retrieve my keys, the marked
master allows me

entry to this week’s
therapeutic work space.

(Never leave keys untended.)

Ask the group to recall
a mother, a brother, a warm

afternoon. Remember a taste,
like your favorite cake or
a sound, something soothing.

(Unlock memories gently.)

Yes Michael, melted yellow-
orange mac & cheese. Um hum.
Belly, full. Kitchen, bright.

(Not all homes are happy.)

Linda, yes of course. Your daughter’s
laugh. Her dimpled grin. Let’s try
this again, next session.

My approach
to the ward door, swift and
steady. Shoulder the weight.

(Remember to lock.)

Exit through the sun-
lit sally port. Echo and
slam.

Welcome Thunder

If I must live, bring me the blur of box cars,
bring me tender metal, a gentle
roar. Take me to the tar-heat ladder. If I must
live, crush my open door.

Destroy memory’s junkyard, cracked glass,
dirt floor. Night winds return his unwelcome
scent, raised fists. The sky, an open sore
that spreads like car rust. Lay me flat

like a penny left on the tracks. If I must live,
let his dark rose wither. Bring me the comfort
of creosote, the weight of ballast stones.
If I am not to die, let me lie

in thunder, count slashed
bits of blue. Lightning. Sweet roar.

Self Portrait as Kitten

I  The Social Worker Asks Which Animal I Would Like To Be

A kitten Miss, a calico kitten.

My mama’s incisors, a welcome
tug at the scruff of my neck, I rest
in the safe recess of her

jaw. When the mutts’
incessant snarl begins,
she keeps their snap at bay.

If their gnarls
grow fierce, I find
my way back to mama,

to our damp corner
beneath the porch. Cool silt
quells. Don’t stare

back, don’t look
through cracked slats, that
flat-eyed dog could kill you.

II  The Social Worker Asks Me What My Animal’s Safe Space Looks Like

Mama and I curl in sawdust
nested breaths, hers follows
mine. Hay time settles slow

like lichen, like fallen
field stones. When the dogs
rush in, we bolt up

our red-bud, far from their
teethy haunt and heinous
bray. Safe in the  sway

of our canopy, we lick
the sky’s blue bowl
and sip milk-sun.

Ars Poetica Haibun: Hospice Dogs, Two Versions

My brother died years ago in hospice. It was quick and he was young. Quite devastating. The parade of nurses and volunteers was endless. My niece sat in the room all the while absolutely silent. Out of the blue, she looked at me and asked why the therapy dogs were there. I was speechless. My favorite dog was the one who didn’t do tricks. I didn’t want to be entertained. 

VERSION 1
Hospice dog visits
my niece asks why
he won’t do tricks

VERSION 2
Hospice dogs
the one I like best
doesn’t do tricks

The second version seems simpler. Simple enough? I was reluctant to remove my niece from the piece. Hers was such a heartbreaking and honest question. I felt it added depth in the face of death that only a child could bring. Perhaps my loss is more direct. Easier to access.

Note: Ars Poetica Haibun: Hospice Dogs, Two Versions is, as the title suggests, an ars poetica. According to poets.org, an ars poetica poem is a poem examining the role of poets themselves as subjects, their relationships to the poem, and the act of writing. It’s also a haibun which the poetry foundation describes as a poetic form created by Matsuo Basho in which a poet combines prose and haiku to create a prose poem…many American poets, such as Jack Kerouac, began to gradually depart from this traditional syllable and line count in favor of depicting images as succinctly as possible.

Redeemer, Make Me Your Obedient Bloodhound

Lord, come. Leash me to recovery,
make my hunger heel, make my rage sit.

Rage, an untrained pit bull, all teeth n snarl,
no sense, tearin’ into trouble’s thigh.

Troubling–– my freedom gone, Lord I knew
I knew the cost of using. Those mutts

ran circles, chased godless wants n buried sticks.
Another dug hole, more dank happiness.

I know the taste of faith’s happiness––
I know the long road to Gran’s sweet tea.

Gonna guard my rutted road. Crows, come gnaw
these cravings clean. Lord, toss me a faith bone.

Gimme a short run Jesus, tie my craving.
Cinch my line, leash me to recovery.

Note: Redeemer, Make Me Your Obedient Bloodhound is a duplex, a form invented by Jericho Brown in his 2019 collection, The Tradition.  Here’s a blog post from the Poetry Foundation’s Harriet Blog. For even more info, here’s an interview from The Rumpus in which Brown discusses what his process was as he was determining the duplex’s constraints, which he calls boundaries. To create a duplex, Brown guts the sonnet, borrows from the ghazal & integrates the blues. Here’s an example of the form, a poem called Duplex.