the heart that fueled
his boyish smile
the rattle of bone
flecking
against the metal
near his ear
IV
My father and I climbed the long stairway together
but in his mind we were ascending
a path tangled with vines and giant leaves
all dripping in a sticky stifling mist
heady with the odor of rotting wood
and the calls of strange birds
and as he reached the summit
a familiar smoke appeared putrid
with burnt flesh and punctuated
with the cries of the wounded
I was slightly behind and to his left
climbing the long stairway
into the gallery of Reynolds Store for Men
to sit at Mr. Reynolds’ big oak desk
where I would sign for my wallet-sized
official U.S. government ticket
to manhood
Lady Slipper
Crossing State Hwy 20 that follows
the spring flow of the Pend Oreille
we hike an old logging road
past the rotting log cabin and up the hill
take in the damp May woods
I had often explored
I wanted to show my mother
a lady slipper
I had stumbled upon
the day before blooming
under a stand of young fir
bearing right where the road splits
and walking maybe another 25 yards
we veer off under the gray-green canopy
shift between the trunks
to stand over a single pink flower
framed by a single ovate leaf
persevering in a molding mat of rusty duff
my mother kneels
I kneel beside her
Woodshed
In June we began filling the woodshed
with fir taken from the forest
that surrounded us,
chunked, carried
to the pile outside the shed
where Dad
spent days splitting rounds
with the big double-edged axe
he’d bought in Newport.
This was his wordless duty:
the hefting of the blade,
the swing over his head,
left hand sliding down
to join his right
at the end of the handle,
arms extended, the blade
gaining speed,
driving through the wood,
throwing the sundered pieces
into piles on either side,
the blade sticking
in the chopping block;
his mind working
out the details
of some plan
to repair the old Ford truck
or build a roost
for the chickens;
each fracture
underscoring some figure,
crossing out another,
throwing a circle around
a great idea.
I worked quietly
alongside him, loaded up
arms full of pine slabs,
took them into the shed
and stacked them
floor to ceiling,
ten rows deep.
My Mother Burned My Father’s Letters From the War
the smoke rising
from the burn barrel
smoke
mixed with the smoke
of butter wrappers
and banana peels
the censored words
interstitial meanings
calcined
so that no priestly gathering in
of this incense
will bring them back
for this smoke
ascends to the gods
who
