The Aftermath of Tragedy

I still have the same morning routine. Trudge from bed into the bathroom, sit at the edge of the tub and stare, and I work myself out of whatever night-clothes I bothered with.

Stare.

 Then get dressed slowly, slowly enough that I really barely have to move at all if I don’t want to. Go to the mirror. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Stare. Find lines on my face, find scars from my teenage acne, squint, examine my eyes. Stare.

WashRinseRepeat.

It takes me at least an hour to go through this routine, but I had to change my mornings when they came. They bustled in through my door in scads and droves, filling this old house to the cupboards. My mother would be so happy, her guest room crammed full of people. She’d make them food in a big huge pot, chili or spaghetti. I can’t. I can’t cook for them and I’m not allowed to have my morning routine, so I don’t want to.

Squabble-Squabble

She can’t be alone that long. She’ll… Well she’ll do it just like he did…

Eat

What is she even doing in there, obviously not make-up. I see why he offed himself, Jesus Christ.

Squabble-Eat-Squabble

Honey, we’re worried about you, you… well, you shouldn’t be by yourself too long, dear…

And so I trimmed the fat. To hell with it all and dress like a normal woman. Fifteen minutes flat. But then I find myself staring when I shouldn’t.

At the wall.

At his mother.

At nothing.

Staring makes people uncomfortable, I’ve learned. Almost as much as silence. People, or at least the people milling about my house like so many ants, don’t like it when there’s nothing to say, so they make things up.

“Weather’s nice today, Lena, we should go out.”

“You look tired, Lena, are you tired?”

“I’m so sorry, dear, so sorry.”

“Do you want to talk?”

No.

I do not want to talk. I want to be alone. And not in the I-want-to-kill-myself way. Because I don’t. I just want to be alone so I can laugh. Nobody will let me. Their concerned eyes, their pursed lips, their shoulder clasps and tight hugs, they smother me. My lungs are never full enough for so much as a giggle.

But I need to laugh. I need to smile and bounce around and scream.

Because that’s what you do when you’ve gotten away with murder.

Unseasonably Warm

You pull up the zipper on your faded, blue sweatshirt and cross your arms.
You aren't cold exactly,
In fact, it's unseasonably warm.
You sway from side to side and kick your legs up in a runners stretch.
You're not anxious,
In fact, you're the calmest you've been in
(What I estimate to be) your twenty-three to thirty-one years (roughly).

You look at the man in front of you.
He's wearing an expression I'd call worriedly optimistic,
You're probably adding grays to his already salt and pepper hair
(Mostly salt)
With all this suspense.
You open your mouth for the seventh time.
Still, as if there's a lack of words (or possibly too many),
Nothing is said.

There is something in this silence.
I stand inside it, feeling not the cold nor the thickness I'd expected.
No.
This is tear-stained t-shirts and home-made cookies.
This is first dates and a true, unwavering love for black coffee.
This is something.

I am in this moment, not with you,
But around you.
A snow-globe world.
I supposed I'd be the snow.
Softly touching all the elements,
But not part of the picture.

You set a hand
(Which, the ladies in the audience have recently noticed looks strong and capable)
On the table,
Stabilizing yourself on the dark, weathered oak.
The man,
Who, by now, we
(The wide-eyed, salty fingered onlookers)
Should know is your father,
Gives an encouraging smile and covers your hand with his own.

I know what's supposed to happen here.
We all do.
You say, in a hushed tone
(I lean forward, face bathed in blueish light)
"I love her, Dad."

Neither your father nor the rest of us are suprised.
We stand there silently,
In the kitchen (granite counter-tops, hard-wood floors, wide windows)
Of your surprisingly large (for an office assistant) two bedroom house,
Which we've been told you can afford
(I'm not convinced)
And just when it feels it's been too long, too quiet.
Your father clasps a your arm
(His plaid shirt quite similar to yours)
And lets out a long, loud whistle
Followed by an even louder (floor rumbling, lumberjack-esque) laugh.

When the lights go up,
I can't help but feel a little sad.
Your wedding was beautiful, by the way,
All lace trimmings and softly glowing lights.
I gather my things, and step out into the night-time air,
Which, (I can't help but notice) seems unseasonably warm.

Birches

Today the birches fully yellow.
The creek is flying those wild flags.
It has tasted the honey
of the dark hives of lightning
burning in the mountains.
The chickens drink bravely
from the shallows, and their eyes
sharpen with secret knowledge.
We do not hear their small hearts beating wildly
out in the early darkness.

You'd Tell Me

If it were important, you'd tell me.

The way you shake your head while you brush your teeth,

Looking into your own green eyes like you don't know them.

Two weeks ago you told me a secret.

I remember your arms raised high, touching the ceiling, 

Holding yourself together.

I am here, when your heart is beating faster than it should.

I sing to that tune, an ever changing tempo,

Playing piano across your chest.

We bake a cake every Sunday,

Flour on your nose, my nails painted red,

Nostalgia of a time we do not belong to.

When you come home you stare at the blank TV screen,

Silent, almost gone.

If it were important, you'd tell me.

October

I

The rain, miles of it between us--
out in the dark, it is lighting
the madrones like oil lamps.

It is pooling in the sloped backs
of old horses left in the fields--
reflecting broken stars there.

It is filling the river in crushes
of yellow, the cutbanks turning rapids
silver as the tongues of deathbells.

It is falling on your roof as you
dream of sadness, or lie awake,
or get a glass of water in the dark kitchen.


II

I love to think of you like this,
in rooms full of private blue light--
living the secret life

that everyone lives. It is love
at its loneliest and most prayerful
to know, for a moment,

that you are in so many ways
as anonymous as a star,
as a wood I will never walk in.

Honeymoon Phase

I used to think of you in a different way.
Too much vanilla in runny pancake batter,
On laundry day we walked around the house
In bath robes and crisp white socks,
And falling asleep on our porch-swing in the late summer breeze.

My wooden clock is still there over the bed.
The cupboards in the bathroom are still painted turquoise.
But the spot where you burned the carpet with the vacuum
Is covered by a new couch.
It looks uncomfortable.

Ella has no taste in home decor.
She can't cook.
And, as far as I can see, she has no inclination to clean.
But that's the type of stuff you don't notice in a woman
Who can only come over when your wife and three children aren't home.

The lawyer wanted to split things up 50/50.
Simple and civil.
I just wanted the kids, the Honda,
And to roast the both of you
Over the fire of your Audi's exploded engine.

I know where you keep the extra key,
You aren't smart enough to have moved it.
And the neighbours always liked me best.
So, when I sneek into the house I made a home for five years,
I'm sure "no one" will notice.

I open the refrigerator and the freezer doors.
I turn on all the lights.
I pour a gallon of milk over your bed.
Vinegar goes on the new couch.
Ground pepper in your fancy ground European coffee.

Enjoy your two week honeymoon in Hawaii.

Gold

I

The western song ends, wings
of the green river open in grainfields.
Even now, there is only the long
reflection of stars on the valley floor
where we walked in high summer
through all that gold.


II

Love didn’t drown there
with the wild irises and the black
day moths. It just stepped out of the corridor
into a darker room. Your hours
come down to so much prayer,
blues riffs, afternoons at the kitchen table
I will never know of.


III

I still think, at times,
of the last light standing
long in poplars, and that wrenching
awe at your being there

and being there
in my arms
that made the water in wells
dream of darkness.