[Elegy for My Uncle] or [Oubliette: craniosynostosis]
for Larry Ray Van Horn, 1942-2021
analog life // un-embalmed life // you are gone now without ceremony
on a Tuesday // no sweet medicine for the skin but sky and a backhoe //
two quick spits for the straps when they lowered you in // still man-
child in your mama’s arms they are stacking bodies now to conserve
space // a prison or spent fuel pool compression // your brain still
crushed by the power of bone // how could it not // no god at the top of
those stairs // no elasticity for continental drift // that cranial suture
closed // I was a boy I lead you to the movies as if on a leash // dearest
uncle // lover of cars // remembrancer of homes // postcards
addressed to our normality // house on a pole because your papa loved
purple martins // I never saw you rage but I saw your stubbornness
once before a scoop of cottage cheese // you would not eat it // the nurse
could not make you eat it // I loved you more // you were contagion // sun
around which my genome spun // precious metal returned to ground
[Elegy for My Uncle with Dime Store Turtle and a Scrawl of Desire]
my uncle had a dime store turtle he named Junior for a while // this was
when he was older and better and could share a room but he still worried
so the turtle guarded his radio when he was gone // at least that’s what
he told me but in the end the turtle “didn’t do nothing” // just crawled up
a little ramp in and out of the water // ate lettuce // while my uncle folded
napkins and rode the bus proud to be in America with a job and a pay–
check // the tuberculosis would come later // after the rape after the MRSA //
I don’t think he ever had a phone or computer // he wrote me letters
once with a boyish scrawl saying please come and get me I want the car
the house the wife // same crimp // scrawl of desire as in the helix that
encodes me // I feared it when I had a daughter but she’s okay and I’m okay
and it’s just that an AI is stroking us to death in this primal world // I’m glad
he never knew that // he had a job and that was good and then retired //
coming home to his part of a state-funded room // turtle guarding his stuff
[Elegy for My Uncle with a Childhood in it]
I have to simplify his life to fit the poem so I’ll never know if he yearned
the way a boy yearns for grass stain // a kind of first blood for a boy
when you think about it // second only to his own which he sees often
so it doesn’t count // never mind jackknife broken glass ragged stone // but
leg aches yes // wet dreams // he swam I think he knew water so he knew
weightlessness // but fish in hand // stink of bait // being chased by bums
who just wanted to touch you even though you had no language for it //
who ever does when that happens // you just ride the forbidden and run
away // so sin maybe // a metaphysics that begins as mist but soon
drenches the entire forest which is all a boy has some days but with birds
in it and a box of matches // money enough for an ice cream //
letting it melt a little before he attacks // tongue madly lapping sugars
until his throat is polar // a column of ice // and his brain its
Neanderthal // bony ass to sidewalk curb blazing like a strip of magnesium