Another One (a poem)

I dreamed you were a blond coyote

I held you and we cried because your blue eyes were so clear

And your smile was genuine
Not Cheshire or gritted show biz face

You were so blond, standing, leaning on that porch

Cool as the day you were born into your thirty names

Our Geronimo

In the morning after waking to a tear stained pillow

And your face in everything

I had a run in with a coyote

Not a blond, but still

Blue blue eyes and ragged

Not too long ago soft and beautiful, hope soaked and playful

Pacing, confused, back and forth in front of the little church

Things That Don't Belong on Twitter or Facebook

I have the tenderest heart and I can't figure out how to protect it from always being broken by people who claim to love me but actually misunderstand me or want me to be something different than I am. I just get to feeling like myself is good when I get knocked back again by being told I'm too aggressive, or too honest, or too sensitive, or too....everything. Where on the planet do I go to not be received as just too much?

postmortem (a poem)

when I am dead

wash my body

run your hands slowly over the parts

recognize and discover

tenderly clean my pallid, stony skin

then smooth oils scented with geranium into my skin

and my hair

spread fresh rose petals across my body

and wrap me in linen

carry my body, wrapped this way

carry my body through the streets

let the parade form behind me

let them sing and cry out loud

let everyone know I am dead

call them into the streets

dance beside them and all around me

let ribbons fly and drums be beaten

when I am dead set the dogs to howling

and open the bird cages

let time stop when I am dead

Tiny Ways (a poem)

Tiny Ways

The threat of a long arc of forgiveness

raises questions for me

Mainly, is the steadfastness of your love

tethered to the consistency of your morning ritual?

If your eggs are runny,

will I pay in a thousand tiny ways, long into the future?

A thousand tiny ways

one would be silence

another would be noise

a third would be distance

maybe chatter would be on the list

and absence

persistent drunkenness

wandering eye

revealing arsonist tendencies

subterfuge

sending postcards when traveling for work, but only writing famous, vaguely applicable quotes on them instead of your true sentiment

teabags in the sink

water on the bathroom floor

dirty dishes beside the bed

interfering with my crossword puzzles

getting a cat without telling me

letting the garden die

never fixing the broken stair

not reading my work

keeping the good wine for yourself

your leaving taking me by surprise

Letter to a friend who lost a friend

Dear G_____,

A couple of years back one of my closest friends died. A touchstone, a measuring stick, a bawdy, brave, beautiful man, a craftsman, a wanderer, a gentleman, an intellectual, a collector, a dandy, a hobo, a trickster, a voice of reason and a bottomless well of unconditional love for me. He died suddenly.

A few years before that my dad died. Well, my stepdad, but, you know, my dad. It was awful and eviscerating. He was sick for three years.

When my dad died, even though we'd had so long to get things up to date, he died with lots of anger and much unresolved between us.

When my friend died we were up to date, we knew how much we loved each other, and had no stone left unturned.

My mom and I had an interesting conversation not two days ago, about dream visits from our dead friends and family, and how lovely and how hard they can be. We were talking of the kind of dreams where they come back and tell you they'd never died, but hadn't told anyone, and we wondered whether we'd be mad or happy or what if they came back. I realized if my friend came wandering into the room, I'd be so blissed out that he was back, I wouldn't care if he'd died or not died, I'd just be grateful. But if my dad came back, I'd be furious. Where had he gone, why hadn't he told us, etc...etc...

I am not clear on the exact root of the different feelings, but I know this. My friend is deeply embedded in a beautiful place in my heart, and when I need him, I can hear him. He is with me all the time, and sometimes I have felt his physical presence so strongly, mostly in the form of a hand on the small of my back, encouraging me forward.

I am so so sorry for your loss, G_____.  These friends that we count on, that we carve out space for in our lives, when they leave us before we are prepared it is a devastating blow, and leaves a hole the size and shape of them that can never be filled. But we also store their love in us, and I am surprised and delighted to report that he feels as alive and present to me now as he did when I could touch him. I miss him terribly, and still really crave holding his rough hands in mine and trading dirty jokes with him, but I am constantly amazed at how much of him lives in me.

I hope you get to have a dream visit from your friend, and I hope you find some solace in the piece of him that lives in you, and that can't be dulled by time or experience, because he's part of who you are now.

Love,

Riel