760 Readings

Ushered White Waiting [An Excerpt]

              swing    down
              rope    lantern
                         , clicks,

              into a viral musical phrase

                        in waiting
                      behind an unpainted window,
                       the white light spreads, tossed
                                the nerves secured

             as      hands
             become tender in cut

                                                                haunting, damned love.

           an ushered white waiting
           along marble linoleum, six&seven chairs…

           single burn at the ceiling
           spray of a passing. is, is not.
                     inescapable ey, waterlids, bid for anything, thing. freeze

           to reel.     mother, please speak for me

                             my fault. mine. not his.

                                                             he is here, the one who reads from
                                                                      r i t u a l s.

            hello, are we together right now?

                  spin              spin my heart father
                  your arteries?       can     i     take      them     for    you?

                                                                crash, white

               the doctor and rib crack of electrical push: told this, told this…

              dad: after: you pulled respiration from lungs…
     flashwhiteflash streak, smudging                 who is this now, brother?
                                                          do not ask about the after.

             my mother’s hands are up, are up against swollen features…

                                 what does your face appear…

      untying buttons
      a year after his wife gone, alone to be woken
                to a son’s tense, fraught at twoa.m.

     dad son
           dad son            what can i?

                                                       the one who reads rituals stands
                                                       and leaves, will he read now?
                                                       will he         read
                                                       for you, dad.

           waiting in white momentum.          mom.        my fault. mine
                  my fault
           missed the emergency room.    in the car.    in the passenger seat.

skull falls between the seats and eyes
white                 and and      white and

              opposite of the emergency, opposite
              we at the pulling hard of doors and chains and
                      and where     and masked man in truck
                                            stilts words, pointing

                            behind the desk
                            she was the lady behind the desk
                                    on the telephone
                                    holding pause single finger

              his body
              onto the ground, to be rolled onto gurney but too big, too big
                      his body yanked into wheel chair
                               and ushered in and ushered

eight minutes oxygen deprived, clear.                  i, not a widow yet

Posted 11/13/09
this is a finished piece published under the press i co-edit/run with j. townsend.
will be available from con/crescent press soon.
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