Lefferts Street, Brooklyn NY
Friends gather
like castoff theories of scholars
to see how they might fit together
—and make sense—
at this party in Brooklyn.
Because alone they drift,
rotate edges
in search of companion angles
until their joining
is precious wisdom
pulled from fields of smoke.
Eulogy
for One Not Dead
She will dance into that good night,
not
burn and rave at close of day,
shuffle-dip, sway her way,
not
rage against the dying of the light.
She’ll
don flash shoes and Lindy Hop
into that long sleep—she’s
danced the
Bankhead
Bounce out of a decayed marriage
and will dance into that good night.
She knows to heel-toe her way
over bumpy bits, not burn and rave
at
close of day, has schooled catatonic teens
and will not rage against the dying light.
She knows the pirouette that centers.
Her dance is not to rage
but to live her days. She’ll lace up pointed shoes,
leap into that good night, arms wide
to
the great unknown. She’ll release
once-sunshine tresses and
purposeful upon that supposed-sad height
she will fly into that good night.
What Jack Did for Dan
When
Holly died,
Dan
refused to sleep in their old bed.
Jack
found his brother on the sofa,
ants
had invaded the kitchen,
swarmed
dirty dishes,
paraded
around crusted dish towel
paraded
in lion lines up a wall.
Jack
sprayed vinegar
and
ants ran in frantic circles, drowned
in
vinegar ponds and he
wrapped carcasses
in
paper towel coffins.
Jack picked clothes off chairs, floor,
table
and loaded the washer,
stared
at the steel drum
and
remembered Holly’s
tilt
of head, smile, wordless
affection
saved just for Dan,
and
how that look used to lift up
this
heart now mourning.
Jack
found his brother, his friend
in
front of the TV, impaled by grief
on
a sheet-wrecked sofa since he refused
to
sleep in their bed. Any bed.
Jack
brought two glasses of Johnny Walker Black
and sat next to his brother, the salve of love on anguish.
The Dremel Tool
He
touched my arm
and
said his Dremel tool
could
grind down
square
turns on the plug.
I
heard the whine
of
the Dremel’s motor
through
the garage wall
as
a lover’s serenade.
Our
rosemary bush caressed him
as
he walked past
so
the spicy scent was on him
as
he supported the fountain.
I
juggled plug, pump, and tubing
and
inhaled the heady scent
between
us. The fountain
played
its water-music
as
I stepped into his arms
and
basked in the warmth
of
his rosemary hands
where
anything was possible.
Sarah Ferris has been making up stories and poems ger whole life, but without confidence. Her father said she was always 'off somewhere' as a child. A tree would become a tower in a castle, a rotten stump an entire world for small toy animals.
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