Rereading the poems of others
and my own. Community across
time and graves. What's left
exceeds in significance
one's last moment. Yet
his last moment must have been
exceedingly important
for the poet.
Nothing he did that day will seem meaningful.
While we prosecute the war
a pileated woodpecker and red squirrel
compete for sunflower seeds.
A winter slow
to assert itself.
I can still see my mother's father and his bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts
quiet weekday mornings.
Both grandfathers read sports
pages religiously. I don't know
if my grandmother who gave me the
anthology of, to date, dated
unreadable poems read poetry.
I remember my mother's mother spoke
rarely as an animal.
Writing but not knowing where I'm going
unlike Joan Didion justly
cannibalizing candidates
who didn't read the Constitution, Bill of Rights or
Federalist Papers. It's late,
I have not vacuumed or shopped for food.
Instead I reread
Phil Levine's Salami.
Ulysses Rudolph Roberts
a Federalist by default
laid on the couch
and spilled out his guts
to a women he
envisions to be
the ultimate
siren of shrinks.
With her hair in a bun
books, glasses
and that half buttoned
blouse thing.
He cried and he shook
over the battles he fought
and how everything
that ever happened
was never his fault.
After all
he would reason
he had built
the best fortress
in all God's Kingdoms
with ultra thick walls
turrets and draws.
The tallest
strongest and soundest
in all worlds.
So what if he had to kill
capture and rape
in order to feed
the armies he made
he had God's blessings
His sacred grace.
Yet, Ulysses was
still cowering in the arm
of an old red couch
and crying out loud
It's Not My Fault!
as the Doctor scribed
delusional
pathological
denial...
Dean Walker
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