Blue Pen
I've not
forgotten who gave me the etched blue pen, nor why.
Some say I
collect these maps. Even walls don't
shelter enough:
bruises
abound from fallen trees (the men don't know they chop).
In
kitchens, soups are stirring. I nearly
bury my cookbooks
but keep
most of Mother's aprons--rickracked; embroidered.
My father:
so shocked when I called my childhood sweet;
that world
I miss. What are you sure of? --Mommy's love.
If we
tripped at mistakes, Daddy said, Pick yourself up!
by those
bootstraps he'd grown accustomed to; like dreams
of being
chased by rats. In big-sky-country,
Flathead Lake;
so we
teased him. He couldn't spell
"rhythm"--a red-haired,
fair-skinned
sign. "The silent type." Can a quiet male
comfort as
a cup of tea? Chamomile. What herbs
tell
you--not in the Chinese book. Two
crackers left;
no bread,
no cheese. Repetitive patterns with people
held dear,
till
rupture seems imminent. Compare:
rapture. A tiny,
magnificent
difference. That extra chromosome,
say. Trans-
gender. Transform.
As a child I found my father handsome
in his
blue pilot's uniform; delighted in trying on his mask,
its long
dangling hose like an elephant's trunk I thought.
I didn't
consider poisoned gas, while playing at breathing.