Nihil Volo sed Tempus Dilacerant
It was night and I toppled
The cairn you built. I even loosed
The horses— left the paddock
Gate unhinged and spilt the hogs
From their fold—into the silent
Absence of night, lit only
By their frightened piggy eyes.
I have burnt your barn.
A charred fencing pressed in
Elegant cross hatchings
Imprints my forearms.
My fists unclench, I am ashes.
Yet, my destruction is in vain.
Leaves will turn and let go of their mothers.
Careless and blind, they will relish
Their own gravity. I cannot stop
The world, this world.
While the horses and hogs scatter
Mindlessly in the radiant dark,
I alone must atone to you.
My life fluttering and constant,
A pressed metronome
I cannot help but keep.
**
It Took Two Weeks, But He Fixed It
Most family heirlooms don’t consist
Of spackling paste. Or walls. Or fists.
But my family’s most treasured relic
is a combination therein.
Faces blistered—I’m sure, though I
Didn’t actually see—brows crocheted
Like flaming macramé.
A clouded heat of words and swears,
Trapped under glass, condensating action.
Mouths blossomed forth pristine hate in
Autumn’s early evening. That much I did see
Through the kitchen window, from the garage.
My six-year-old-self— aware only
The “let’s hustle” rush of aunt, then uncle,
Fade of the rumble,
Taillights of the Pontiac.
I stood flabbergast
With the spice rack,
At the eight inch wound
In kitchen sheetrock.
Both of us in shock, shelves
And shouldered arms akimbo;
What happened!? Who did this!?
A pathetic inquiry, at best.
At least he didn’t punch the stud,
He’d left with a broken hand.
And that was all
Grandpa ever said concerning that incident.
I heard it.
I was there.
I was there
When the youngest,
Angry son snuck in silent, late
One night to make amends—
To patch, spackle and heal
A recessed emptiness we had
Finally gotten used to.
