No Gathering In of this Incense. Mark Rhoads
join his right
at the end of the handle,
arms extended, the blade
gaining speed,
driving through the wood,
throwing the sundered pieces
into piles on either side,
the blade sticking
in the chopping block;
his mind working
out the details
of some plan
to repair the old Ford truck
or build a roost
for the chickens;
each fracture
underscoring some figure,
crossing out another,
throwing a circle around
a great idea.
I worked quietly
alongside him, loaded up
arms full of pine slabs,
took them into the shed
and stacked them
floor to ceiling,
ten rows deep.
My Mother Burned My Father’s Letters From the War
the smoke rising
from the burn barrel
smoke
mixed with the smoke
of butter wrappers
and banana peels
the censored words
interstitial meanings
calcined
so that no priestly gathering in
of this incense
will bring them back
for this smoke
ascends to the gods
who know every word
but will not tell me
Where I Was When I Heard about the Sinking of the Andrea Doria
On July 25, 1956, the Italian liner Andrea Doria,
one of the last luxury ocean liners, collided
with the SS Stockholm off Cape Cod and sank
within twelve hours. 46 died. 1660 were rescued.
My mother told me as we were crossing
the Stratford Rd. bridge coming into town.
I was sitting in the big back seat of the old Chevy
running my fingers over the mohair nap;
the window was down, the bridge smelled
of creosote, the lake looked deep and still;
then my mother put out her arm to signal
and we turned right into Broadway.
Deadeye
To my mother the teacher.
The cool rotating of her head
the meeting of the eyes
that pause
the silence
a silence where
you can hear your heart
beating inside your head
and you think it makes
the whole room pulsate
and the other children
turning toward you
horror on their faces
grateful it wasn’t them
Short Block
When Dad brought the car home from the shop,
some men from the neighborhood came by
to stand around the open beak-like hood,
gesticulating, leaning in by turns
to admire the thing. I stood there too
on tiptoe in this colloquium of experts,
lying over the great white fender,
looking down, scanning that yawning space.
Another 50,000 Dad said.
Easy said Mr. Mentti.
Easy I repeated.
‘59 Cadillac
I was standing on the curb across from Sigman’s
where my mother had sent me to buy vinegar
when I saw my first ‘59 Cadillac.
It was coming toward me down 3rd Avenue,
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