family stories.

2006-06-13 2:00 p.m.

after he died, we went around a while, learning to forgive our sins and ourselves as sinners, and we had
conversations about the wrong we had done to one another. my mother
packed up all of her fury and came over, she never
twisted me or was intimidating, and we would talk about how
his teeth were dirty with all the smiling
that there was to do in heaven. In the hospital, his gasps were black and liquid, and they served as sore reminders
of all the harm we'd done, of our firm refusal
to forget the imperfections, to let the whole carry the portion, of how we'd glossed over the good
buried down in living. We were adament deniers of our rights and reasons, and claimed that we were victims, married to his death bed, our veils about our eyebrows, we'd collapse in competition, the greater were his lovers, the better were his friends, and we sent many flowers, poetry and stories
written about him. We turned out as poor winners, because when his fight was over, we only had regrets.
My father
drove home from the state where he'd been staying, and gave up his secrets, apologies he'd meant for keeping now were open to the public, his leaving justified by his terrible actions, and the shame that he had carried, that he had worn like a blanket, was not passed through generations of child molesters and fists- it was dispersed,
windswept into question, so that
no one felt the need to bring it up, we were so humbled by his frankness. let me be frank, let me be able
to speak with this thick tongue
about the way things happened, during the time after he left.
Solace has an impulse, in motions rolling forward, to gas-peddled and go bridgeward
in searching out his fortune, those bickering contenders
that labeled themselves beginnings, that carried our reception inside their stomachs and their partner's, will notice me again
when the metal meets the pavement, will recall that i was a savior
whose luck ran too thin, whose rivers, overflowing, would not let them near me, would keep them guarded and against
their will forsaken. let them parody their grieving
over flames and glass shards, let them accompany each other
back to their cars, and he will say i still love you, and she will say good-bye, because they weren't meant for each other, their meanings were obliged to going elsewhere, were tempted by other language
to expand and take new visage, to fit in other placements, and would never thrive
so closely set together. let them
call my telephone
just to hear its ringing, to pretend that they are trying to imagine
the tube, the pills, the breathing
that were circling my body. they never thought about these things when he died, only about their own fear of dying, their own fear of being
alive without a purpose, without a comforter to forsake, and when their children were too close
to knowing them, blemished, they seized their hands to clutching, and ordered them to leave. if you
want what you are asking, then why do you stare, come up to its fulfillment, the burden that you buried, in caretaking and subjection, now goes deeper than the grave, and smiles down, its teeth dirty from heaven, its gasps heavy and bated, waiting to overtake
your steps when you are sleeping.
this is how you have been repaid, you will wear your days in anger, the dust
that wrote your name, will write you out, your daughter, a gift to the highway, your son, a hospital and hotel, both counter medicated,
trying to keep your arms at bay.

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