When I Tell the Story
after “Hurt Bone” by Keetje Kuipers
i. When I Tell the Story of My Mother,
I tell about her hands
squeezing a lemon
to wring out
every last drop of juice.
I am that lemon.
ii. When I Tell the Story of My Father,
it’s the one where he calls me,
baby girl, though I don’t know
if I made that up, but that’s
how he made me feel sometimes.
iii. When I Tell the Story of My Brother, It’s To Be Continued
because it only just began
a few days before he died at fifty-three,
when we said I love you for the first time
in the bright,
stinking hospital room
just after he’d soiled himself
on the way to the toilet.
Love can smell like shit
and still be love.
iv. When I Tell the Story of Us,
it’s filled with fur and barks and purrs
and looking up at stars,
across at crosswords, British mysteries,
SyFy TV, and sighs of relief whenever
everyday grief’s lulled enough
to savor breads and stews
and all your homespun recipes for love.
v. When I Tell the Story of My Life,
I tell it to the soundtrack of the Atlantic Ocean,
and Springsteen’s Thunder Road,
and anything by Miles or Coltrane.
I’d like Fields of Gold sung by Eva Cassidy
played at my funeral,
though what I really wish
is that Leonard Cohen could be there in person,
even if it were just to clear his throat.