this is the place
where i once lived
basement tv, saturday sugar
cereal, endless ping pong
mowing the lawn and
shooting driveway basketball hoops
sledding as a child
reading by the fireplace
blasting the beasties upstairs
on the old stereo
ice cream birthday cakes
hide and go seek
learning how to shave
and juggle bean bags
talent shows with sunglasses
and the elvis moves
staring at jumping squirrels
outside my bedroom window
a home once ours
now is no more
and when the virus
constricted air from over
58,220 lungs, no one
came to the door
informing us of death’s
arrival, no uniformed soldier’s
solemn words to comfort
ventilator’s failure to save
lives, this war of
no bullets, no answers
to the endless quest
for vaccine’s hopeful solace
we look to blame
those who cannot contain
this invisble reaper, as
if this were one
person’s fault, as if
we could just drop
a nuke and make
it all go away
instead we walk by
black granite names, mourning
the many more, expiring
with each passing day
many years
ago i
cooked rabbit
really rabbits
for there
were two
that i
cut with
my chef’s
knife to
separate meat
from bone
and while
this happened
i whisphered
i’m sorry
your lives
had meaning
we will
eat all
of you
and we
did, but
i was
still sad
the second tower went down
when I was in the car
heard disbelief, NPR like me
unable to stay calm, explaining
the before of white shirts waving for help
specks of humanity jumping out of windows
their hail hit while
I was eating my cereal flakes
at school, televisions on in every room
sirens rushing sound all over screens
the towers falling over and over again
repetition, it happened, it happened
“what does this mean?” I asked my students
as if they knew
“we are going to war,” one said
he wasn’t wrong
I put my classroom flag out in the hall
duct taped it up for all to see
half-staff in my mind
everything in disarray
some TVs stayed on the whole day
kids asked the one teacher from Manhattan
who she knew there
almost excited to hear loss firsthand
like watching people on CNN
holding photos of sisters, mothers, dads
the missing
the forever gone
It is only a house, wood, paint, single pane glass windows,
but ten years pass and it is no longer ours, no longer
that two-story blanket that covered us in our laughter,
held our bare feet on floorboards that knew our family’s
groove, from Gangnam Style to I ain’t your mama, no I
ain’t your mama, not anymore. Sold, our Spanish
American War casa, Victorian era, master bedroom in
the San Francisco fog, where I daydreamed through
tree leaves and power lines, pondered this and that, scribbled,
loved and prayed on dark rainy nights. This place held
us in moments, just moments that always go on to the next,
the goodbye was always waiting, we left and it said hello.
We sit in this white bucket, usually once a year to
rest on the counter near lottery tickets and cash
register. In warm water, spayed, our thorns are gone,
left somewhere in Ecuador, swept off the floor,
before they packed us tight to fly far away, then taken
in trucks all over paved roads into rectangular buildings
where fluorescent lights are always on. We watch them
buy beer, cigarettes, some stare at us in wonder that we
have petals, red color, were once alive. They touch,
fondle, rustle our leaves, remembering a moment
with us, that wasn’t us. Others grab us, a dozen at a time,
the number of true love, when money doesn’t matter at all.
Days go by and we start to droop, no one smiles anymore,
wilted, jilted, until one day, they just throw us away.
she wanted to dig up the body
not his body, but the wooden box
with ashes, he is too far from me
she said, need him closer, away from
rain seeping under dirt, talk never
turned to shovels, chardonnay, chardonnay
and words, words, left him in ground
but he wasn’t there either, missing
husband, reward upon return
she put up signs, but
no one ever called
Daniel W. Polk 