be made over like the handle of a tool?

When I look into the eyes of those

who love me and not their fears,

when I wash my head and rinse

my fears, when I hear my God

in between my suffering,

I realize the gift

like a chisel or harp

is in my hand,

and that you give back

by making good use

of what you’re given.

Cradlesong

CRADLESONG

(for Jessica)

How do I explain chemotherapy

to a six-year-old up in my arms

before I shed my coat?

How do I tell her I can’t

kiss her on the lips because

my white count is low, that

we must leave early because

Aunt Helen has a cold?

And when we go, she hides

in her room, face in the corner,

till I return and swallow her

in my arms—Damn it all—

I kiss her anyway

again and again.

And next time, she’s on my lap

staring in my eyes as if to see—

is there laughter behind them

or is that puppy on a leash, too?

She searches my face, then says,

“You’re losing your hair.”

I act surprised, “Where? Show me.”

She runs her hand along my scalp.

I lean into her little face,

“It’s still me.”

She takes my hand and out we go

as she shimmies on her swing,

pumping higher, giddy as she

eats the day, “Look! Uncle Mark!

I’m swinging till I’m High

as the Sun! Look!”

I push her with all my heart,

“Me, too, sweetheart—”

she comes back to me—

“me, too.”

Lifesong with Two Trumpets

LIFESONG WITH TWO TRUMPETS

I am tired of those

who swill their head

in a bucket and claim

there is no God or Good

or Beauty to be had.

I come from a tribe

of survivors who love life

more than the hardships

they’ve been dealt. And

we have found each other

the way rivers find the sea.

We know pain, fear, and

struggle, like dark fish

nibbling at our bottom.

But have grown love, faith,

and will like barnacles,

razored out of sight.

We come from under

every sort of rock: drunk,

raped, abandoned, cancered.

And as we navigate our way,

everyone trembles at the

wheel, the cost of being real.

So I’m fed up with those

who suck at the dark side

of things, complaining

they are bored, complaining

life’s a chore, complaining

there is nothing but their

chaos to applaud.

To be broken is no reason

to see all things as broken.

To fear death

is not a calling.

I have outlived a tumor

pressing on my brain, have

had my 8th rib removed, and

though I wept in the tub at the

gash in my side, at the fact that

I can be slit open so easily

like a bull pumped up for

market, I only want life

more, long to dance till

my heart sweats, till my

mind stops anticipating,