You sleep surrounded by our sons.
I keep watch, listen to the night’s wind,
to the dog’s complaint
as coyotes scavenge, padding
through streets and meager grass.

When the sun rises
you’ll be in the wide arms
of the sky.  The boys will eat
their breakfast of oranges
and strawberries, juice
dripping from their chins.

You will step from the body
of the plane and wait
for the wrench,
for silk to catch wind,
the earth rushing its claim.

Honorable Mention, Desert Moon Review Poetry Month Contest, 2002

Tattoo

A twig and a spray of pokeberries

              was all we needed.  For me, the filigree 

of  vines, flowers and leaves,

              the henna of  India’s  brides.

You drew the sailor’s anchor

              and pierced heart,  each summer

 the name of a different girl. 
 

From Indiana you chose the ocean,

             the depth of a sub running six months,

the sea speaking  in pings and blips,

             and a foreign wife in neon and sarong

with sand in her long blond hair.
 

              The tides were true in the ebb

and swell of your distances,

              a shore leave found a dilapidated car

in your drive, the windows hung with lace

              and a lab pup yapping through the screen. 

Inside, a toddler captivated with brass buttons.

              and  a brunette with only a shoe box of mail

and no explanation.  Under a oak stifled

               with moss you found her

–I’m sorry, goodbye–

              in a robin egg envelope,

the loops of each letter familiar

              as the gold on your hand. 

Come home is all there is 

              to say when your voice

chokes through the telephone.

              Late spring and the berries are still green

along the highway. On my skin

              the sensation of a tinged point

and your stained fingertips, 

              indelible through the wash

of  seasons and the sea.

Another Mother’s Son
            To LJT 1990-2001

The backordered boots arrived the day
before your funeral, appropriately black.
Find the right outfit and  the invitation
will come it’s said. I imagined a company party,
caroling, looking slimmer in my black pants.
They were loose as I slipped into them
this morning, it felt wrong to be pleased
while you lay in a closed coffin.

I saw your mother just two days ago
as I was picking out garland
and lights for the tree,
a few last presents
while the boys were at school.
She was developing film, photos of you
for the memorial. Today the preacher
said ‘it brings us together’ as we
breathed the scent of your flowers.

I’ve never felt so alone Lucas,
as when I hugged her at the store.
The radio was playing Silent Night.
A babe is born, the star burning bright,
‘sleep in heavenly peace.’
How can she sleep to wake again
to your eyes that won’t open?
Tell Him we know about birth,
but now we need the stone,
to see it roll away.
Oh Lord, roll it away.

Previously published in The Pikeville Review, 2002

Inheritance: 1353  Birch Cove Lane
            A collaboration by Amy Unsworth & Jack Martin

So much must be swept from this lakefront house;
the cold hearth’s accumulation of dust,
winter reveries of spider and mouse.
We rise in darkness to attend spring’s tasks,
sweeping away months like miles of highway.

Laid on andirons blanketed in rust,
the fire draws, smoke entwines the archway 
of winterbare branches—
                                        Breath held too long,
grief postponed—exhaled into the young day.

Ablaze, last year’s logs astonished anew
now rise and vanish, backlit by blue.