my pepaw

my pepaw suffered a stroke during one of my sophomore years in college.

i went to school a little over an hour away from home. i was playing a video game when my dad called and told me. he said something like ‘hey, buddy, pepaw had a stroke. he’s probably not going to make it. you should come home as soon as you can.’

i don’t remember how i actually responded. maybe i tried to play it cool and say ‘ok, i’ll be home as soon as i can.’ or maybe i just said ‘ok’ and hung up, shocked. one of my many struggles with add as an adolescent (trust me – i was an adolescent at 19) was an inability to show vulnerability. i always kept up a persona because, i guess honestly, i had no idea who i was.

i had no fucking idea who i was.

so, anyway, i finished playing that video game. it was a college football game on a sega dreamcast (heavily underrated system). and i remember thinking, as i played, ‘i am a monster. i can’t ever tell anyone i finished this game instead of going home.’

i drove to the hospital – wake med? – no . . . whatever the hospital on wake forest near 440 is. that one.

. . . right? how are these the things i can’t remember, but i can recall where i was standing in the room, the round fat buttons on my cheap green plastic phone (not a cell phone. a phone phone, goodness), the weather, where the tv was positioned in the room, i can remember those things,

anyway,

i drove to the hospital. i don’t remember the drive. i don’t remember finding the room.

i do remember walking in.

the lights were off, pepaw’s bed was in the middle of the room (well, no shit, that’s how hospital rooms work) . . . i realize i visualize this scene in greyscale. black and white. it’s because the overhead lights weren’t on (right?) and it was sunny and fall, so the thin slant of natural light through the curtains left colors muted, and pepaw had white hair and was dying and i’m crying right now,

so anyway,

there was silence in the room. and also my family, but mostly silence. she was definitely hogging up the airspace.

i don’t think i made eye contact with anyone. i did not say a word. i’m still crying, present tense, and i walked up to his bed, kissed him on the forehead, and left. i might have started sobbing before i hit the door, i can’t remember.

i loved that man so much.

i love you, pepaw,

goodness, i miss you

and wonder how different my life

would be if i’d known then how much

i love you and that you

were mortal.

if i’d let myself know

my time with you was limited.

i’m sorry, i miss you.

he was perfect.
he was so good to me.
i don’t really care if i idealize him
or created a version of him
who is more than he was, because
he is, to me, he is.

i stayed at school an extra hour, because i was avoiding having to see my greatest love lie dying in cheap sheets. i wasn’t a monster, i was a boy. i was filled with regret because i’d done what boys do, which is outgrow their grandfathers, especially boys who don’t like themselves and don’t know how to say what i know how to say now which is i love you, i miss you, i’ll never forget you, i’m proud to be yours.

i wasn’t a monster for leaving the hospital room without making eye contact or even hugging my mom, i was a human. and i had never faced grief that cut through my persona of pretending i don’t care (because i had no idea how to show that i cared about anything, because i was so damn scared all the time).

and so, now, i cry every time i think of my pepaw. every time. and i think of people who remind me of him, and i realize that’s why i am drawn to them, and it’s why i value who i am becoming – hah, no, who i’ve always been and now will allow myself to see.

about myself.

my first true love was lloyd houston neil. he will never have to abdicate that title to anyone else, living or dead. if i ever tell you, reader, friend, anyone, i love you like i love my pepaw, as awkward as it might sound said aloud, i could not possibly give you higher praise.

he was and is a miracle.

i miss him all the damn time.

i almost said ‘i hope he comes back’ but that’s the whole thing about mortality,

so i’m glad he’s still here.

ok, thanks everyone, goodnight,

joel

nigh nigh

i like to hold my little girl
her name is scarlett houston
and sing to her at night
and feel her head grow heavy
and press into my chest
and her sweet and tiny fingers
pinch the fabric of my tshirt sleeve
and she holds on to her daddy
and says ‘bubbles’
or ‘nigh nigh’
at descending levels of volume
until i shush my singing
and say to her i love you
and she knows now is goodnight
and leans from my arms
over her crib and i lower her down
and she collects her blanket and her fox
and her bunny and her thoughts
and says ‘nigh nigh’ again.

add and fear: a false dichotomy of choice

for most of my life, fear has worn robes of royalty in the court of my psyche. it strode about, a tilted crown gleaming and twisted scepter raised hi, whispering

‘you cannot do that.’

or something like

‘best not tell anyone; you will be hated.’ Continue reading

pretend you are my starry night

pretend you are my starry night

wait i’ve always wondered
is a metaphor pretending
was that the wrong command
are metaphors pretending
if they really tell the truth
like oh hah i’m doing it again
say the truth is something flat placed
over a curved surface, sure
the surface is covered, but
perhaps not fully connected
to the truth set down on top of it
but if our truth has some roundness
to it a concave to a convex
and the metaphor which is also true
drapes itself perfectly over the
curved surface as if they were
carved from the same stone
is a metaphor pretending?

anyway,

pretend you are my starry night
and every single detail that makes you
you
is one star in the night sky and
i am tasked with collecting every detail
every star and naming it
this star is your laugh
this star here, no, darling, the one just above
yes, that one there, that star
is your eyes and these two
they are your heart and your fire
and this one, i love this star
this is your posture when you are hungry
and this one is that face you make
when you think you’re being funny.

it would be impossible
to find and name every star
but goodness, me, my love,
what a wonderfully impossible task
to gather every star that is yours
and all of them are,
in case you need reminding
and to hold them – you – in my hands
and be able to show you
to reflect back upon you
your own light, your beauty,
my lovely gentle starry night.

kneeling poet to the sun

the hum of two fans
could not hide the absence of
his heavy breathing by her side.

and in the dark, the sun
lovely even when she’s
dressed in his tshirt (he hopes)
and with unshaven legs
because he is absent, remember,
ah forgive my sentence structure,
she is lovely then, too.

darling, when you feel least like
the sun, that is when you are
most lovely, most beautiful,
to me.

perhaps my consistency in language
and pursuit and eye contact
i love you’s, you are the sun
may assure you,

and i’m sorry i allowed my words
to run dry when the clouds rolled in
what’s the point, he wondered,
of loving a poet if he won’t behave like one?

i love you.
you are lovely, always.
i surrender, i submit, i offer
to help you pull back the
curtains on your own window
and to forever fill
the absence of my own breath
with you in the suddenly-not-so-scary dark.

gimme a holler, sometime, darling,

poet

as he trots through clover

the fox slumped in a halfhearted semicircle of patchy fur
once blazing red now limp orange juxtaposed with exposed pink skin.
he gummed at his paws, teeth long since lost in the woods.

the sun came and went day and night.
he kept himself well shaded beneath the earth
and his eyes adjusted to see the dark.

he forgot how to run and hunt.

he did not, however, forget hunger
and she urged him to the surface.

clover parted ‘round him
and he laughed to himself
picturing this broken fox as royalty

and the scent caught him
eyes narrowed and body taut        how did this happen where has this been
a coiled spring to explode             he has teeth again his mouth is bleeding
blood and life and the miracle       bursting through his gums, sharp, white
of instinct                                        his fur blazing red again in the sun
that cannot be forgotten.               a rabbit snapped between his jaws
       hi                                                 as he trots through clover.

today, she rises

if i may make an assumption of the reader
we have all seen the sun
seen her face felt her warmth
even had her signature beneath our skin

let us say now that the sun has set
and for some reason or another
she remained that way
for many years
we could only wonder or guess
when she would return.

those of us who had known her
we would wake every morning, i think
whispering to ourselves ‘today, she rises.’
and no matter how long the days were
dark with no sun shining down on us

tomorrow, we would always know and always hope
tomorrow, she will rise.