The Peacemaker

At eighty-five he's a man of birch twigs,
his voice reedy with pining for dad.
A dandy in a gold tie that splashes
when he embraces my brother.
I peck uncle's cheek and he opens
savior arms like a prayer shawl, a shaman
tent we burrow inside while he enfolds
us, strayed from the path home. “Kiss
each other” and we obey while he holds
us. We are branches twisting in distrust,
he is the trunk's heart confident that kisses
can glue a tree whole. In the hall we pose
for a photograph of this tenuous moment
but the film fails and we disappear.

Excerpt from Variations on the Last Time

v.
The last time I see her she wears
the beige dress for remembrance,
her maroon panic-coat. It flaps
reprovingly in the wind.
I see her, see her as she is −
a disappointed orchid.
Although tomorrow beckons her
she resists and leaves me
with a clumsy packet of tears and shadows.

vi.
The last time I saw her
I didn't know the last had entered my door,
didn't know the phrases to rouse her.
The swaying machine of her heart crackled,
but I didn't hear it, nor did I notice
the night's stealthy corners,
the silvered edges of her hands
moths on the table.