Surprise
And, like a child, I know
that ‘maybe’ always meant ‘no’
just like I knew their ‘discussions’
were really arguments
because Daddy had been drinking for 5 days
because the Browns lost
and decided to lay into Mom
because I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water instead of being in bed.
And, as I said those words to him,
in a half joking manner,
I watched my brother of choice turn to look at me,
and he stuttered as he asked me
if that was true.
And all I could do was say ‘yeah’ and shrug,
because that was behavior I’d come to accept.
It breaks my heart
that I still have the ability to surprise him
after everything he already knows–
there’s still an innocence I can hurt.

The First
As I lay next a fire
reading poetry
and silently congratulating myself for keeping it burning all on my own,
I wonder what the first fire was like.
What the first sparks looked like
as they fell on the brush and twigs,
what the crackle sounded like
as the fire fed and hungered for more,
and the bites of flame on fingertips
as man answered fire’s desire,
and the smell and taste of smoke
rolling across the ground
as the dawn fog rolls across the river.
Did the first fire starters see the miracle of fire,
the balance of life and death
in the flames lapping the wood?
Did they see the magic,
the magic that I see?

The Rose Giver
Two long stemmed red roses
petals still in virginal buds
floating in a sooty, sticky puddle
on the blacked, cracked pavement.
Carefully placed in the careless setting
poor lighting, in a poorer section of town
the wrong side of town if you were to ask some passing by.
Though, if you were to try and ask a passerby,
they wouldn’t look in your eyes
as they mumbled a half hearted answer.
Soon the roses will be trampled
the petals will be scattered and lost
but for now, they lay softly
silent tribute to the fallen.
The rose giver says a 30 second goodbye
once every year or so
under the poor lighting, in the even poorer section of town.
12.2.2010