Mourning Song

I sit in the old quad of Bakersfield High, out front of Warren Hall. This time it's February 2009 already, and all of the days I spent here as a kid, in a state of elevated darkness, still haunt about in the ashen, dwindling palms.

I turn my graying eyes to the sky and think of you. I wonder how so many miles and tidal surge of lifetimes separate us now. You call to my heart and mind with such consistent kindness and, like all my girlhood boyfriends, I heard you first on the radio.

Back then, in the stifling heat of nights possessed by want and innocence, rocking my pillowed head to the metal collisions; the terrors of purgatory: the Southern Pacific and Santa Fe switching cars; 1:00 AM, 2:00 AM, 3:30, 3:45, on and on till light. The trains and radio were deep comfort to this girl interrupted.

I didn't know I'd be riding those freight trains two years later, following vision North. That they would deliver me from what was murderously mundane, undone, to the cherry orchards of Stockton. Two million Bings and Queen Anns later we'd pick enough for the old Chevy flatbed. Four months after, it was "get thee" to Alaska.

And there I'd find you.

Boys from your parts flocked to my tavern, we of chess and politics and poetry jams. These kids, high on seine crew wealth and good beer, knew of a new comer, their college home boy, red hot radio. I fell, pell mell and stayed.

Sunlight muscles it's pushy way onto the walk, driving me towards the guarded tracks. Beneath the two train crossing, screaming sounds peal from every neuron. Those shades and memory, his dangle dance, open my throat and the morning fills with song.

That older heart duet; there's something more to be sung.

The Older Twin

I knew him. I knew him before he knew himself.

And he loved me before anyone knew I could soak it up yet. When I was still more dimple and black kitty trouble propped in the corner of the couch than real.

Tucked safely but alone, he'd show up there, talking a blue string of energy charged sounds, so rich I had no choice but to be enchanted.

That's when I learned how to turn the tables on him. Shave and a hair cut, two bits. If I could make him laugh, he'd stay close, playing with my hands while yelling tall stories into Ma.

Ma still young and challenged with all that we were and everything else.

She whistled. Beautiful sounds, split into two and dancey.

And those two danced. As much for each other as they did for me. They danced together close by, Mama bending over to be the same size he was, both grinning at me cause they knew I'd start laughing. A black mopped, gummy mouthed belly roar.

I was the dark haired spectre who knew them both, especially him. Cause he was always there.

Until he wasn't.

This was written in honor to my old pal Garrison Keillor, who's just lost his brother to a skating accident.
His fine tribute is linked in the title of my poem for all brothers.

the cloister

...under the low hanging steep incline...holding the brightly polished jewels