Quaise

Something I heard a dead man say
saved me

His eyes were milky white

They served as mirrors
The reflection of a desperate man

Told me

In dreams you can recapture
that which is lost
or longed for

Make right
That which is left

I nap often
The quiet of his smell
sings me to sleep

Wake up on Nantucket
Not knowing what day it is
No reason to care

You are by my side
Crunch of foot to sand
lap of tide

I gather about me the shawl
of those here before me

Listen to them speak
through the wind
at night

My pillow
filters out
white noise

Tells it like it was
Builds a fire
Stories passed on
that you might remember

Carried on the crackle
Riding a scallop shell pop
Strange castanets

I listen transfixed
Rapture in the rustle



Brautigan

Richard and I went fishing Monday.
We stopped at Willard's Market,
for smokes, worms, and some Kool-Aid.

Richard had offered to pay.
As usual Richard only had Monopoly money
little scraps of paper with hand drawn fish
So I gave the attendant $4.00 for a $3.99 purchase.

Worms, we couldn't afford
so we used Kool-Aid,
sat lazy fishing at our river
for the better part of an afternoon.
Toes in the mud,
fish beginning to rise.

I've known Richard for years,
but to be his lover is completely awesome with a capital A,
mouth open,
eyes squeezed tight.
Ah.....

Richard once compared lazy fishing
to loading mercury with a pitchfork.
He often tells me in the afterglow,
breath short,
eyes wide,
I see the heavy water rise and I'm gone.

We fish at the North River,
right next to the old mill.
You know the place.
We set about our task
the Kool-Aid slides on the hook smooth.
Everything seems if suspended in watermelon sugar.

We didn't catch a fish that day.

I don't know why Richard calls me Trout.
My name is Amy.
He just started calling me Trout one day when we was fishing
And it just stuck.

We was on vacation.
Lake Winapessaki, I think.
It was fall and I felt like a rainbow,
now Trout's my name.

Richard used to be famous
to hear him tell it.

It was before I met him.
He said he was considered a humorist.
Funny, nothing he's ever said or done has struck me as funny.

He owns a black cat.
Richard calls him Dogfood.
He often gives the cat's name as an example of his humor.
If you ask me, that ain't funny.
I think it's kind of sad.
I think Richard's sad,
but I love him.

He makes me feel weak and alive all at once.
I don't much understand him,
my education is lacking and he's an educated man.

He never makes me feel lacking though,
And I can almost see the stars as he sees them in the sound of his voice.

Maybe I'm too casual.
One last remnant of the summer of love.
Long, straight hair.
Bell bottom jeans, Frye boots.
The day we met I said
Richard, I hide the keys to my apartment under the doormat
let yourself in.
I sleep heavy.

He showed up that night like a sombrero that fell from the sky.
Afterward, we lay as crumpled as the linen under us.
Just like that.
I remember thinking what the hell happened?

It's always like that with Richard,
maybe not quite as hot,
but better than a slap on the ass.

That was the first time he ever slapped me on the ass.
I like it when he does it,
even when I pretend not to like it.
Believe me, I can pretend good.

I told Richard, "I see stars in your voice."
he looked at me like he saw fire for the first time,
but he stayed rooted.
He didn't run.
Richard's not a running man,
at least not the Richard I know,
knew.......

There is never enough time for fishing,
even if fishing is all you have to do.
Fame is a clever trick much like the wonder of a phtotograph.
I have a phtotgraph of Richard and me.

We set up a camera on a log by our favorite spot.
Fell into focus wrapped in each other's arms.
The timer whirred,
and snapped our shot.

Richard said "Trout,
I love it here with you,
remember that whenever you look at this picture."

The picture of Richard and me hangs in my parlor,
right next to Richard's empty gun rack.

(winner of the 2003 Cambridge Poetry Award for Outstanding Narrative Poem)