somewhere in Oregon, a woman

helping his worn body into bed, the same body

that crushed my sister’s childhood, mine.

Maybe this wife kisses him

goodnight, tells him she loves him,

actually means it. This close to the end,

if he asked forgiveness, what could I say?

If I were handed my father’s ashes,

what would I do with them?

What body of water would be fit

for his scattering? What ground?

It’s best when I think least. I listen

to my friend’s story without judgement

or surprise, taking it in as he takes in

the women, without question, simply a given,

as unexceptional as conversation between friends,

the laughter and at each end

the relative comfort of silence.

The Job

for Tobey

When my friend lost her little finger

between the rollers of a printing press,

I hadn’t met her yet. It must have taken

months for the stump to heal, skin stretched

and stitched over bone, must have taken

years before she could consider it calmly,

as she does now, in an airport cafe

over a cup of black coffee.

She doesn’t complain or blame the unguarded

machine, the noise of the factory, the job

with its long unbroken hours.

She simply opens her damaged hand and studies

the emptiness, the loss

of symmetry and flesh, and tells me

it was a small price to pay,

that her missing finger taught her

to take more care with her life,

with what she reaches out

to touch, to stay awake when she’s awake

and listen, to pay attention

to what’s turning in the world.

For the Sake of Strangers

No matter what the grief, its weight,

we are obliged to carry it.

We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength

that pushes us through crowds.

And then the young boy gives me directions

so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,

waits patiently for my empty body to pass through.

All day it continues, each kindness

reaching toward another — a stranger

singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees

offering their blossoms, a retarded child

who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.

Somehow they always find me, seem even

to be waiting, determined to keep me

from myself, from the thing that calls to me

as it must have once called to them —

this temptation to step off the edge

and fall weightless, away from the world.

What I Wouldn’t Do

The only job I didn’t like, quit

after the first shift, was selling

subscriptions to TV Guide over the phone.

Before that it was fast food, all

the onion rings I could eat, handing

sacks of deep fried burritos through

the sliding window, the hungry hands

grabbing back. And at the laundromat,

plucking bright coins from a palm

or pressing them into one, kids

screaming from the bathroom and twenty

dryers on high. Cleaning houses was fine,

polishing the knick-knacks of the rich.