Tyler Bigney lives, and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada. His poems, short stories, and travelogues have appeared in Poetry New Zealand, Pearl, Third Wednesday, The Meadow, and Iodine, among others.
Four Poems (September 20, 2011. Issue 31.)
On the drive home
On the drive home
in my father's car
the clock reads 3:14 a.m.
but it feels like midnight.
The last star
is about to bury itself
in dark space and matter
and I forgot to make a wish
four hours and three minutes ago.
My belated wish:
A Greek pizza piled high
with enough feta cheese
to stop my heart
on a dime.
I sing to keep myself from falling asleep.
I sing from the top of my heart
out the open window
and I wonder if the deer and the crickets
and those old black bears are scared of me.
I felt good
feeding stray dogs
potato stuffed perogies, in the dead
of a Russian winter.
I loved the country
more than the girl
but you can't have the country
without the girl.
And like the other men
who broke their own hearts
or felt like wrapping their car
around a telephone pole or
saw every open window
as a reason to jump, but
didn't have the valor
anywhere within them,
I kept my eyes on the road
squinting past the rain
on the windshield,
believing
in everything
that the glowing yellow lines
would eventually take me home.
Believing is everything
You went to China.
you kissed and made love to a woman
in her bedroom
in her parent's apartment
when they left for the market to buy gingerroot.
You promised her it would work out.
Love would find a way.
You will learn
to cherish the late night phone calls.
You will buy a body pillow, and
trace a smiley face in glow-in-the-dark ink
where her face would be.
When you wake in the night
you will believe
it is her.
You will welcome
the hunger pangs
because the money
in the cookie jar
above the stove
is going to have her
standing
saying hello
sleeping
breathing on your neck
rubbing your chest to bring up phlegm
when you're dying,
folding a million origami birds
to carry you into heaven
when you choke on your last breath.
You need to believe
that the hole you've started
in the backyard
will one day
bring you home
and she will be
standing in a garden
of peonies
bowing
from the waist
all the way
down
to her chipped red toenails
welcoming you.
Believing is everything.
The dark things
I'm working the graveyard shift
at the group home, surviving on
coffee, and all I can think about
is falling sleep watching cartoons
in my own bed. Right now I could
care less about disorders or the
different spectrums of autism.
I tell myself there has to be more
than this. I could join the navy,
sail around the world serving my
country, learning how to lock
and load a gun. But these kids keep
waking up, completing their routines,
or wanting popcorn or barbequed peanuts,
and ruining my daydreams of Moscow
summers, Iranian women, and Asian
mail order brides. I want to sneak out, leave
them to fend for themselves for an hour
while I find a late night diner, or a bar
that serves a stiff drink. But my conscience
takes over, and I stir up a pitcher of
grape Kool-Aid, pour a small
bowl of peanuts, and help tuck them in.
As I bring the blankets up to their chins
I wonder what they see when they look at me.
Part of me fears they see the
dark things that no one else can. So
I smile dumbly, hoping it distracts
them from my guilt, and say goodnight,
knowing they'll be up again, wanting
something else, and I'll bend, because
as much as they exhaust me,
I enjoy the company.
How I imagine my death, and the funeral that follows
This afternoon
standing on my balcony
in blue shorts
it dawned on me
that I was going to die
and will undoubtedly
outlive everyone
who loves or loved me.
One stranger will cast my eulogy
upon other strangers
and those I never cared for, and wanted
no part of before the blood
in my heart dried, and collected
around important valves,
rendering me
lifeless.
I can hear the errant keys
of the Wurlitzer
echoing off the walls
in the empty church.
Nobody noticing,
checking their watch
thinking about tee-times,
and if they remembered
to turn the oven off.
I see men, strong and proud
carrying
my casket down
a flight of sun soaked stairs
into a hearse, talking quietly
amongst themselves.
Who is this guy anyway?
People gathered in a large white room
sitting on neatly lined red chairs
stuffing themselves
with crackers, cheese,
egg sandwiches,
talking about baseball,
rain,
Florida
how it's warm there
how the people
live forever
and how the baseball team wins
now and then.
And when the worms
and termites
and ticks
devour the cheap plywood
of my Wal-Mart casket,
only my teeth will remain, and
maybe
a lock of hair
and two rusted pennies,
tails up,
where my eyes
used to be.
Five Poems (February 20, 2011. Issue 25.)
A Change of Seasons
It’s just me on the road. Two a.m.
On my way to the deer stand.
Coffee in the cup holder and
half a pack of cigarettes, waiting.
I’ll drink coffee and nap
without firing a single bullet.
Thinking of the girl I impregnated,
slightly worried the child
may have autism or something else
I won’t be able to deal with.
But I’ll manage.
I’ve always been one
to prepare for the worst.
And this is the moment
I’ve been waiting for.
My heart stopped
shortly after my blood stopped.
My fingers twitched. My eyes blinked.
Once. Twice. Three times.
And I wasn’t ready.
Two Minutes
I waited in the bedroom
while my girlfriend peed on the stick
to see if our lives would change.
She returned two minutes later
and tucked the test in the bottom
of my sock drawer.
“What do you think,” I said,
without looking up.
I resented her then, as if the blame
rested squarely on her shoulders.
She confused the time of her ovulation, she snivelled.
I don’t even know what that word means.
Ovulation.
“Let’s go for a drive and talk,” she suggested.
We drove and talked about whether or not
we should keep it and if we could do it.
I answered “I don’t know” to everything
hopelessly glancing in the rear-view
making sure there was enough room
for a car seat. I turned to my girlfriend.
She was wearing her seatbelt.
I checked my blind spot
before changing lanes – first time in my life.
We drove by houses lit up by lamp
and television glow. It was eight o’clock.
Wheel of fortune was on. I wondered
if the wheel was spinning,
and whether or not, it would ever stop.
As I Walked
I rolled through cities
with a knife in my back
and the word “hello”
cemented on my tongue
in a dozen different languages -
Icelandic, Turkish, Russian, Farsi, etcetera.
I was never hungry
poor, or dirty.
I always had a cigarette
for the sunset,
a coffee for the sunrise,
and a lukewarm bath in the afternoons.
I gambolled through alleys at night
with an orange fire in my heart
and a pocket teeming with coins –
different currencies from different countries -
and a soul I’d give up
for a goodnight kiss.
And the gypsy children
with charcoaled rings
around their eyes
didn’t beleaguer me
or hold out a hand
or make a peep.
I figured that maybe
they felt sorry,
which is hard to believe,
with the coins
clinking like a song
in my pockets as I walked.
Who am I?
Everybody knew something was amiss
when my grandfather started losing his keys
on a regular basis. But we
didn’t pay much attention. We figured
he was getting older, and that
these things were part of the aging process,
and that it happened to everybody.
But then he forgot bigger things: where he parked,
what he had for supper, where the bathroom was.
Names followed. First, it was mine
and my mother’s, then my father’s.
Soon after, it was faces he’d forgotten, and
visiting at Christmas, he’d sit
in his rocking chair, nodding and smiling
as if he knew us all. But we all saw the same thing:
the direful fear in his eyes that he knew no one.
A year later he moved into our basement
and spent his days crying. Crying turned into
toppling over when he tried to walk.
My mother threw out his underwear
and dressed him in diapers. He
forgot how to shave. That was my new job.
The day came when he forgot how to chew
his food, and my father bought a blender
and he ate his food like that. Liquefied.
At his funeral, I was asked to get up and speak
a few kind words about how I remembered him.
I couldn’t.
Now, years later I’ve decided to speak about
what I remember most: Finding my father
standing over him, holding him
by the scruff of the shirt, and shaking him.
Yelling:
“Tell me you remember.
Who am I? Dad, are you listening?
Tell me you remember who I am.”
Raw Chicken Meat
Damp August morning,
and we were out lighting fires
in the woods across the street
from an old farmhouse,
smoking cigarettes we stole
from our mothers and talking
about Nirvana and
maybe Sonic Youth.
“In Utero, I think, is their best album.”
It wasn’t long after
when a shot rang out.
Followed by the strident cry
of the farmer:
“Get the hell off my property,
you little fuckers!”
I stomped on the fire
maybe three times,
not caring
if it was out, or not.
“He saw the smoke above the trees,” is all I heard
my friend say.
And then he was gone, running.
And I was off without looking,
spruce branches slapping and stinging my face.
The second last thing I saw
was the fence, and the second last thing I thought
was that I could jump it, no problem.
The last thing I saw was the flesh in my thigh
and the last thing I thought
was that it looked like raw chicken meat.
Thirteen Red Bumps (December 20, 2010. Issue 23.)
It was morning, and I was in the shower when I discovered a choleric fury of tiny red bumps collecting around the base of my penis. I swallowed, lifting my penis, and bending over, I counted the red bumps with my finger. I counted thirteen bumps and scanned through the people I’d slept with over the past two months. I still had their phone numbers, if I had to; I would call each of them, demanding to know if they had failed to mention carrying any sexually transmitted diseases. I’ll take them to court, I thought to myself. I’ll call a lawyer, and I’ll sue whoever it was who did this to me. They’re not going to get away with this.
For the better part of two days, I did nothing but sleep, watch television and eat. Sometimes, after working up the nerve, I would pry open my laptop and type “herpes symptoms” into the search engine. I skimmed through the symptoms, sweating, trying to soak in as much information my weak stomach could handle, and then hurrying to shut the laptop and pushing it away from me as if it was diseased too. I leaned back on the couch, feeling a sense of comfort. Besides the obvious, I was showing no other, what the website referred to as “classic” signs of herpes: the red bumps weren’t blistering, nor did it sting when I peed. I did not have that false sense of security for long, as panic again set in, and my mind raced to all the other STDs I could be carrying. I sat rigid, fumbling with my hands, wondering if whether or not I should go to the doctor.
On the third day, desperately needing the diagnosis of a professional, I got in my car and drove to the hospital. It was just after midnight and the waiting room was empty, except for a young woman sitting, legs crossed, working on a crossword puzzle. I took a seat across from her, feeling ashamed of my red bumps, and realizing then that I would be alone forever. It wasn’t long before they called my name. I stepped into the little office and sat on the bed, waiting for the doctor. I sat only ten minutes before seeing her – a tough faced, broad shouldered, black haired woman.
“Mr. Bigney,” she grinned, “How are you today?”
“Not good,” I said.
“Oh,” she paused. “What makes you say that?”
“Well,” I started, pausing, not wanting to sound vulgar. “I was in the shower a few mornings ago and noticed these red bumps all over the base of my penis. I counted thirteen of them. I think it might be an STD.”
She gave me a weary look and then stepped aside, slipping her hands into a pair of blue latex gloves. “Go ahead and take your pants down. Let me have a look.” She said, pulling the gloves tight.
I slid my pants down around my ankles, hiding my penis in the palm of my hand. “Are you sure you want to see this? I can come back tomorrow and see a male doctor, if you’d rather,” I blurted.
“Doesn’t matter who sees it. We’re all professionals. Move your hand, and let me have a look,” she gestured, pointing two fingers at her eyes.
I turned, and lifted one leg up onto the bed, still holding onto my penis. “It might not be anything at all,” I said, nervously. “It doesn’t sting when I pee or anything like that. It’s probably nothing. I mean, I did some -”
“Just let me have a look to make sure,” she interrupted.
I looked up and counted the tiny black holes in the ceiling tiles, slowly removing my hand from my penis, as if lifting the curtain on a freak show. “You see them,” I asked, biting down hard on my lip.
“Yes,” she whispered, studying them. “I see them.”
“It’s herpes, isn’t it,” I moaned, holding back tears.
“You can pull your pants up now, Mr. Bigney,” she said, rising abruptly to her feet.
I reached down, and pulled my pants up. Silence fell over the room, a long, heavy silence. Only two sounds could be heard: the angry tap of her foot on the floor, and my fingers fumbling with the button on my pants.
“Brutal truth,” I said, looking up at her, after buttoning my pants.
“Brutal truth,” she said, slowly peeling off the latex gloves, and tossing them into the trash can beside her.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Lay it on me.”
“You don’t have herpes,” she said, after a long pause.
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Genital warts? Gonorrhoea? The clap?”
“Mr. Bigney,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s just razor burn.”
I was elated; I wanted to sing, cheer, reach out and wrap my arms around her, and kiss her on the mouth. But I didn’t. I looked her in the eye and smiled a shy smile. “That’s a big weight off my shoulders,” I breathed. “Thank you.”
“Mmmhmm,” she mumbled, staring at me with a crooked frown, tapping her foot on the floor. “Have a good night, Mr. Bigney.
The girl with the crossword puzzle was still seated in the waiting area. Under the hospital light she looked healthy and luxurious. Her eyes were a glowing mix of greens and blues. I felt good and clean looking at her, knowing that I was disease free. I peeked at her puzzle when I walked by. Two across. Boxing great. Three letters. “Ali,” I whispered to myself continuing outside into the cold. The stars hung low in the December sky. The night was young. I left my car in the parking lot, knowing it would be there in the morning, and walked, swallowing mouthfuls of wintry air, in direction of the nearest bar. I needed a drink.
Things I Learned (September 20, 2010. Issue 21.)
On my first day in Vientiane, Laos, I fell in love with a woman named Kim. We met on the flight over from Bangkok, and as we stood to exit the plane, she leaned over, held my earlobe between her thumb and index finger and whispered that no more would my heart be a stranger. And I believed her.
That same night we met in a small bar, and drank Beerlaos in a booth lit up by candlelight, until the owner turned off the generator and went to bed. I paid the bill. I walked her to the door, which was more or less an empty frame in the bar, and hugged her goodbye. We promised to meet in the morning for coffee.
It was a warm night, and I was in no rush to get home. I felt very much in my element. Enjoy this, I said aloud to myself. I stopped by the fountain where I was to meet her in a few hours and lit a cigarette. The flick of the lighter filled the otherwise dank and redolent air. I finished my cigarette and walked home to my hostel, where a thin pillow was awaiting my heavy head.
Not ten minutes after I had lay down for the night, was there was a soft knock at my door. I looked over at the door in alarm. I sat up from bed and soundlessly tiptoed over.
“Who is it,” I said, still half asleep.
“It’s me, Kim,” she answered.
“Oh,” I said, opening the door. “Come in. Come in.”
She rushed past me, and as I turned to look at her, I heard a man’s voice behind me.
“Don’t move whitey.”
I turned to see a man, wearing a black baseball hat, and jeans. Between his hat being halfway pulled down, and the darkness of the room, his face was indiscernible.
“Are you with her,” I asked him, turning to look at her.
“I told you not to move, white boy.”
I stood still. “What are you doing here?”
He brushed past me, and stood next to Kim. He reached down and shifted his pants, and I saw that his hand was gripped around the handle of a gun.
“Take whatever you want,” I said, raising my hands up into the air, “but I should tell you that I don’t have much.”
“Who do you think you are,” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What are you doing here?”
At that moment, I wanted to be back in Canada, in my small, one bedroom apartment, eating chicken noodle soup that I cooked in the microwave, and watching movies I’d seen a thousand times before.
I watched as the man and the woman I had come to love, rummage through my suitcase like wild animals. I watched as they shoved my camera, money, wallet, and three pairs of jeans into a duffel bag.
“I think this is good,” he said to Kim.
“Can you please leave now,” I said, raising my voice a little.
“Yes, we leave now,” he said.
I stared into his vicious eyes as he walked by. She was still standing beside my bed. I looked at her.
“Why are you doing this,” I asked.
She said nothing, merely stood there staring at me, with a thin smile spread across her face.
“You were so easy, Tyler,” she smiled.
And then I felt it: the handle of the man’s gun striking me in the back of the head. I fell to my knees and looked across the floor at her shiny black flats, and the purple dress that hung gracefully below her knee. I felt the air from her dress as she walked by. The breeze felt nice on my face. In only mere seconds after she passed, the man started kicking me in the back of the head, the ribs, the legs, the neck, et cetera. He flipped me onto my back with his foot. He stood, hulking over me, with my head resting in a pool of my own blood. I could see in his eyes that he was angry. He wanted to say something, but wouldn’t. His mouth tightened. He raised the gun above his head. There was a brief moment of silence, where all I could hear was the bugs in the air, a cricket or two, and the flickering of electricity before he brought his hand down. I saw white light, as my teeth 
broke and cracked and the ceiling closed in and swallowed me whole.
I woke up sometime later in a dark, damp cell, with a man, dressed in uniform, standing over me, shining a bright light into my eyes.
“Mr. Bigney,” he said, and then he started to say something else, but it was all a blur.
For the next two days, I ambled in and out of consciousness. I woke up hungry, unsure of my surroundings, and bringing my hand to my face was my only reminder of what had transpired. My lip was split in two different places; my left eye was grossly swollen, and I was without two of my bottom teeth. It hurt to blink, to smile, to breathe. When I swallowed all I could taste was the cold, irony blood that had been collecting in my mouth for the past forty eight hours. I rested my head on my arm, ignored the sharp pangs of hunger burning in my stomach and tried desperately to sleep. I was suddenly aware of the silence of the small room, removed from everything, isolated, almost bucolic.
Again, I woke to the bright light in my eyes.
“Mr. Bigney,” he said. “You wake now. We must go.”
I opened my eyes, but did not speak. I stared up at him, his slope shoulders, and a worn face that reminded me of my father’s old baseball glove from high school.
“Mr. Bigney,” he repeated, “I said, it’s time to wake up. We must go now.”
“Where are we going,” I whispered, slowly raising my head off the floor.
“We go.”
“Where,” I asked again.
“Follow me.”
“Where are we going,” I said, my voice beginning to teeter on the edge of anger.
“Follow me. You will see.”
It took everything I had to lift myself to a standing position. I braced my arms against the wall and pulled myself up.
“I don’t think I can walk,” I said, looking down at my legs.
He turned around and looked me up and down.
“Mr. Bigney,” he said, growing agitated, “we must leave now.”
“Okay,” I nodded, still holding onto the wall. “I’ll try.”
“Yes, yes. You must walk. We must go.”
I followed behind him, stopping every few steps to breathe and rest, as we winded down a long, dimly lit hallway to another room, void of any natural light.
“Mr. Bigney, you sit now,” he said, pointing to a wooden desk.
I took a seat and rested my head against the cold concrete wall. I waited for what felt like hours, but was, in reality only a few minutes. The man in uniform returned, with a larger, cold faced man. He looked down at me and me back at him. He looked away and nodded for the man in uniform to leave.
“Why are you here, Mr. Bigney,” he asked, once we were alone.
“I don’t even know how I got here,” I said. “I was robbed a couple of days ago by this man and this woman named Kim. They took everything I had.”
“I don’t mean to this room,” he said. “I mean, why you came to Laos?”
“I heard it was nice,” I shrugged.
“Did you come here to meet women?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That woman I met on the flight here from Bangkok. I came here mostly to see the resting Buddha’s and temples.”
“I see,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Mr. Bigney, are you aware in our country that relations between a Laos national and a foreigner, like yourself, are strictly forbidden?”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Now, you do. I want you to know that I am powerful man. You may not think that Laos is a powerful country, but I, myself am a powerful man. I know everything that goes on in this city. I could make you disappear if I wished such a thing.”
I felt a lump form in the back of my throat.
“You’re learning a lot today, Mr. Bigney,” he said, pausing. He lit a cigarette and stood up from behind the table, exhaling a thick cloud of blue smoke through his nostrils. “You will leave here today.”
“This place,” I asked, looking around me.
“Laos,” he said. “You will leave Laos. We are deporting you. You will go back to Thailand this afternoon and then you go home.” He walked over, and stared down at me. “I made this very easy on you. Remember, it could be much worse.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, tonguing the bloody hole between my bottom teeth.
I was accompanied by the familiar, slope shouldered, uniformed man by taxi to the airport. He sat in the back, me in the front.
“How you like Canada,” he said, tapping me on the shoulder.
I turned to look at him. “I like Canada very much,” I smiled.
“I never go there.”
“You should. I think you would like it.”
“No,” he said. “I never go there.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding, turning back around, unable to think of anything else to say. I looked out the window, and listened as he hummed the Laos national anthem softly to himself.
At the airport, he led me through customs, to my gate, and whispered something to the check-in lady, that made her once sweet smile, turn into an abhorred looking frown.
“Mr. Bigney,” he said, turning to me. “You will go now.”
I didn’t know if I should reach out and shake his hand, or hug him goodbye. Instead, I nodded, and thanked him, turned around, and listened to his small steps as he walked away, realizing that he was the closest thing I had to a friend here in Laos.
“Wait,” I said, turning around quickly. “Just wait.”
He stopped and looked back at me. I took two steps toward him.
“Were you the one who took me from my hostel to the jail,” I asked.
“Yes,” he smiled proudly. “That was me.”
“My teeth,” I said, pointing to my mouth. “Did you find my teeth?”
“Mr. Bigney,” he smiled. “Your teeth we throw away in the garbage. They all cracked and broken. They no good to you now.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “Thanks anyway.”
I sat and slumped down in my seat. I closed my eyes.
I awoke sometime later to the flight attendant shaking me.
“Your flight,” she smiled. “You will miss your flight if you sleep all day.”
I stood up, picked up my suitcase and walked halfway down the jet way. I turned around, and stole another quick glance of the flight attendant. She was watching me, making sure that I was going to leave, no doubt. For a long second, I wondered whether or not I should introduce myself to her. Ask that if she’s ever in Canada to look me up. I turned back around and hurried – raced – down the jet way to the plane, which was waiting to take me home.
Four Poems (August 20, 2010. Issue 20.)
Knife or Hammer
The first job I ever had
was on a little farm
where I lifted bails of hay
and stuck suction cups
to cows udders
to drive out the milk.
I worked hard – from morning till night
The farmer noticed it, and it
wasn’t long until he took me aside
and told me that I was his new
right hand man.
The next day when I came to work,
there was a little red haired
freckled face boy lifting those bails
of hay and sticking those suction cups
to the cows. And I smiled, quietly
mocking him under my breath.
Across the green fields,
the farmer led me to a little barn.
He opened the door
and guided me inside.
“Watch your step,” he said.
“What is this place?”
“You ever eat veal?”
“No.”
“You’ll see then.”
With a flashlight he led me down
a short, dirt floored hall
and stopped in front of a closed door.
He looked at me
before pushing it open
and shone the flashlight
across the room. There, with their feet tied,
and laying down on their sides,
were rows of baby cows.
“Helps keep the meat tender
with them down on their sides like that,”
he said. “They can’t move.”
I just nodded.
Together, we untied their feet
and led one of them down
that dirt floored hall to another room.
“Do you want to knife or hammer,” he asked.
“Hammer,” I whispered.
He passed me the mallet.
“Hit it over the head as hard as you can.”
“Okay,” I nodded.
He held the baby cow
and I swung the hammer.
He took the knife
slit its throat
and then hung it up
to bleed it dry.
My promotion ended there
and the little red haired freckle faced boy
got the job and I went back to
slinging bails of hay
and milking the cows,
always watching from a distance
as the farmer led the boy into the barn
and watching as the boy came out
half hour later,
covered in blood and smiling
from ear to ear, telling me
it was a much better job than mine.
“Were you the knife
or were you the hammer,” he asked.
“Hammer,” I said.
With the blood still wet
on his shirt,
there was no use in me
returning his question.
The night I went crazy is
the night I had too much to drink,
and walked across the street
and preached to the cops about
their god and their guns.
They didn’t listen, but they
moved quick and weren’t long
tossing me into the back of the cop car.
And instead of driving me to the police station,
they drove me to the hospital,
where they flushed my insides
and stuck me in a room for two weeks
where I talked aloud to myself
and saw my parent’s every couple of days.
They looked at me different,
well, at least my mother did. My father
would look the other way, or at the ceiling
or out the window. And when I spoke he
only whispered.
The nurses were nice, they fed me toast
with cheese whiz, and walked me across the
street on the week-ends to some fast food restaurant.
Other times they sat at the foot of my bed
and just talked.
The day before my release, they took me
to the bathroom and asked me to lift my head up
and look myself in the mirror. I couldn’t. I stared
down at my feet. When they asked why, I could
only shrug my shoulders and wait
until they left.
You see, I’ve always been stubborn
and scared to admit,
that when I looked at myself
in the mirror,
I didn’t see anything at all.
We painted the kitchen ceiling sky blue,
the walls a lime green. Later,
we went out to the back porch,
drank Greek beer and smoked the cigarettes
I brought back with me from Russia.
The stars peeked out-
the north star first
and the others followed
shortly after.
I pointed out the Big Dipper
and you nodded.
It was quiet -
black space and the crickets.
The sounds of the television
poured out the window –
the 11 o’clock news
where a man in a town I’ve never been
died while jumping into a man hole
to save a baby. The baby is alright –
she’s at the hospital overnight
for precautionary reasons
and the man, while dead,
is tonight’s hero.
Praying
Moved to Beijing
-
Fell asleep on the red eye
next to an old man
who wasn’t scared of dying.
She met me at the airport
wearing shiny black flats
and a purple dress that fell
gracelessly below her knee.
That night she whispered
she once breathed North Korean air
and bowed down to the leader
the same man who killed her father
the same man who sent her mother
and her sisters to the camp
where they worked you until
your fingers melt and your heart stops.
We laid awake
as she ran her malnourished fingers
over my body and promised that no more
would my heart be a stranger.
I nodded my haunted head
and blinked my eyes,
never losing sight of her crooked toenails
that I painted cobalt blue the night before
while she stared at the picture
and prayed (very softly)
and I prayed too (silently)
but it never occurred to me
until I started to write this poem
many years later
that we were praying
for entirely different reasons.
Secrets (June 20, 2010. Issue 18.)
It was my great grandfather
(whom I’d never met)
who sent my grandmother
on the passenger train
to Winnipeg, Manitoba
alone, with a cardboard
suitcase, and the varicose veins
bulging from her legs
to give birth to the bastard son
breathing, kicking, screaming
in her swollen belly.
She pushed him out,
jaundiced, eyes closed
desperately yearning
to reach out
to touch him
to wipe the placenta
from his eyes
but the nurses wheeled him
into another room
leaving her alone
in the dark
to think
quiet things
about the shape of his face
the smell of his skin
the color of his eyes
the beat of his heart
and the sound of his voice,
as he cried.
She took the passenger train home
six days later
hands pressed
against her empty belly
fingering her belly button
searching. Dreaming of all the names
she might have called him.
William. Jack. Henry. Charles. Kenneth. John.
It took fifty years
and Alzheimer’s
to force her swollen tongue
to move in rhythm
and for the words to spill
from her dry lips
like birds
onto the table
for all of us to see:
The boy
who once
breathed
dreamed
kicked
in the damp dank dark
of her swollen belly.
The one she talked to
years later,
when the power was out
or when she was snowed in
from a blizzard. The one she held
in her arms, and danced around the
dark, rocking, singing him to sleep.