Yes, I never paid mind: now a story of wheat? or mountain?
The barn and the curious boy with a girl, you, never shy,
too stubborn to bruise
and wrung by the heart until
damp was all the flow you could muster.
Montana’s snow saddles up and your noise
bends under leas and shade on the flowers unmade
as they hesitate between sow and grow.
Will you, are you already, in communion with them—the about
to be?  Even now, a pulse within the plover’s eggs of next spring?
Spell me the cancer so I can unbraid that what ate you
down stroke by stroke, shitty disease.
Bananas by the half bunch, you taught me
what I could tear off, not take, still keep the rules . . .
Your body, a coffer of restless practicality,
meanders water trails and lily paths
trellised by cornering vines.  Sun on my skin in your yard
is not sun but soul, yours, spread to warm what is cold.
I taste you in the crippling heat,
in the sorrow of rusting orange zinnias,
in the ghost of boy tracks belonging to a lost son,
in the sorrow of stories we decal with spit to masks we take off and put on.
It’s here, this glad ball of hate,
relief and anger knotted off in a net, a caul on this sack
of useless grief.
Here, the green dog of our howling nights is come:
I would look for the mother you never pleased
and give her rocks to hold under her tongue until she gets it right
and the moon that you are on the water strikes her as boldly as me.
I would embarrass your daughter with sagas of ants
loosed at Scoma’s on the wharf,
but the fable would tarnish, go gaudy-awful in the telling—
so I won’t.  Ah.  But it comes to me
now, the place name of being for the memoir I can not write:

Three Forks. 
In Montana.

We were supposed to have chicken-fried steak there
some one day.  How, Judithy, dearest, I ask you: How
will I know where to go?  Or, is there only one street?

Oh, you mustn't cry.  I'm doing that part here.

— beautiful, Lynn
quite so. Splendid —baile!

Thank you.


t

Thank you, tomas.  I made one small change with water paths and lily trails and may trim up further.  Appreciate your kindness. 

lynn

Damn, made me cry too.  I'm sorry.  I did not make the connection to what we had spoken of earlier. I am unsure of the word "leas" in this sentence:

bends under leas and shade on the flowers unmade

Very sorry.

Sherry

Lynn, how wonderful.  It made me cry.... I have a friend in hospital with secondary cancer.
"Rage, rage for the dying of the light".
Thank you
kevin

Sherry-Berry -- am using leas in same sense as meadows or dells; seemed a less used, yet lovely sort of word; think "under earth thick with growing" and stages of still to come mixed into what's passed. 

Kevin -- exactly.  Loss is such a mix of grief and relief when someone loved is well out of the pain.  I will keep good thoughts for your friend. 

I can't imagine a different title for this, but have had suggestions that this one is weak on another site.  Opinions?  Or, any other thoughts?  Particularly, is it too personal to me, my loss, and not universal, as a poem?

thanks,

lynn

Extraordinary, so strong and beautiful, Lynn. I've no problem at all with the title. Must pick it.

milner

Thank you, M.  I wrote it to possibly read at her services today . . . but I could not.  This little circle of friends from the old days grows smaller and smaller.  Who will verify my tall tales now?

I surely know what you mean, Lynn. One particular friend, Anna Fissler, a fine poet who died young of cancer, with only time for one small book, knowing her fate wrote this among others:

thing

there is this thing
that has crawled deep
into the bone imagining
it is its home
daily bread
from which to suck
strength
become more than me

foolish thing
foolish thing

What a gift that you shared that.  Thank you, milner.

And thank you, too, Silent.  I don't know how, but I missed your words before.  And they were so kind.  Much appreciated.  thank you.

lynn

Well, finally this is picked! My faith is restored.
I know how you feel about praise Lynn, so I didn't tell you before, but this poem moved me in a way I didn't expect. Recently in Japan, there was a festival called Obon, which is a time to remember and honour deceased friends and relatives. Although not Buddhist (or religious at all), it did of course cause me to think of those I have lost, and then reading this, well . . .

So, thank you, and thank you milner too for sharing that wonderful poem by your friend. Sorry for your loss.

B.