A REST STOP IN BAVARIA
The ancient monastery
may as well be a tankard
for all the beer that’s made
in its cells.
Having passed fields of barley,
cruised parallel to a Spring river,
I now know where this is headed,
a countryside oasis
where religion and ale
not only co-exist,
but spur each other on
to deeper faith
and hardier brews.
Outside tables
are adorned by
brimming brown flagons
served by waiters in robes,
their placid faces topped
by well-cut crowns with bald bullseyes.
I sip this rich nectar,
so close to its oakwood womb,
I can almost taste the umbilical cord.
THE HEART OF AN AUNT
Her heart’s gone the
way of history.
It makes good
reading but it’s not up to date.
And it’s totally
useless if you’re trying
to put together a portrait
of how she is now.
Her breath can’t
help you.
Nor can the
photographs in the album.
Or the crooked paths
of her memory.
Her eyes are more
concerned with
the wallpaper and
teacups on the table.
They are not an
entranceway.
There was a war I’ve heard
and her heart went missing.
Her hair turned from light brown to white.
But an organ does more than just change color.
In truth, it does much less.
Yes, her floral dress is from a time
when that heart was still with her.
But cloth has little memory.
It can’t even explain away its stains.
Her shoes are silent even when she walks the floors.
She bakes. She puts the kettle on the stove.
Anything the heartless can do, she’s adept at.
But her cookies are just cookies.
There are chocolate chips but no love in them.
And when she pours, it’s all steamy water.
There’s not a single drop of herself.
Her conversation revolves around the weather,
how unbearably hot or bitterly cold it is
She shivers and she sweats from the outside in.
If it wasn’t for temperature, she’d feel nothing.
I often wonder what happened to her heart.
Was it lost somewhere on her travels?
Does it, to this day, wander around Marseilles or Sarajevo?
Or pace the deck of a ship somewhere
between Portsmouth and New York?
Or is it still on the stage, singing and dancing
while her piano man pounds out the tunes?
If a man has it, chances are it will never be returned.
Her heart was designed more for show than utility.
And now it’s a
no-show. And of no use either.
THE OBLIGATORY VISIT
Aunt Elaine,
she of the rheumatism
and heavy black shoes,
limps to the door to greet me,
humming old Pattie Page songs,
and rugged up for winter
even though it's July out.
At the kitchen table,
she speaks in a whisper -
those next door listen through
the walls, she warns -
and she offers me tea
out of that morning's sorry bag
and cold ham on stale bread -
I nibble and sip slowly
so she won't push seconds on me.
Her apartment's in
an assisted living facility,
a drab place where nurses
come through every day
to remove the smiles from the faces -
and everything smells of Listerine and talc.
Conversation's brief
and ends with her walking me
gingerly to the door,
my visit bookended
by her aches and pains
and the floral cotton dress
she wore for me the last time.
Aunt Elaine -
she never married, never traveled,
never did much,
just lived in her body long enough
so she could no longer
look after it herself.
I tell her, "You're looking well."
She replies, "You're all grown up."
Only one of us is lying.
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