The coming of the light was disorienting at first, like the shimmer of the surface of the sea when viewed from beneath.  Ossie Mae was swimming up to meet it head on with the fearlessness that only the children of the Great Depression possess.  That stark light called out to her bones.

     Ossie Mae could hear faint sounds of work:  the crinkling of cellophane wrappers, muffled footsteps, and an incessant chatter of beeps nearby.  She broke the water's surface and spied a silhouette moving gracefully around the room's only bed.  The lights' intrusion subsided, and Ossie Mae was able to recognize  hospital scrubs as the silhouette's garment of choice.

     "Am I dead," Ossie Mae ventured feebly.

     "I don't know," the silhouette responded.  "Do you feel dead?"

     "I don't know what dead feels like."

     "Then how do you know you were ever alive?"

     The question hung in the air for a moment while Ossie Mae gathered her wits.  "I don't reckon it matters, does it?  What happened?  Where am I?  What is your name?"  Now the questions flowed like water over the falls.

     "I am Nurse Cassandra.  This is a hospital.  You are here because you fell and broke your hip.  You came in alone...is there anyone you would like me to call for you?  Family?  Friends?"

     Ossie Mae's pupils dilated slightly, as if looking past Nurse Cassandra, searching.  "No.  My husband, Jack, passed away eight years ago.  We never had children and the few friends I have are all in nursing homes or moved away to live with their babies and grand-babies, or to Florida.  It's just me now...," Ossie Mae said, her voice slowly and steadily trailing off.

     Nurse Cassandra, who looked to be a woman in her early fifties, set down the clipboard she had been scanning while Ossie Mae spoke.  She sat down next to Ossie Mae and took her hand.  Ossie Mae thought to herself that for such a young woman, Nurse Cassandra had old eyes.  They were kind and gray, but seemed old and out of place.

     "Is there anything I can do for you, Ossie Mae," Nurse Cassandra asked gently.

     "Well...my daddy was a simple man, and he always told me 'Ossie Mae, you ain't got to know what you want in life, but it sure does help to know what you don't want.'  I sure do miss Daddy...but I reckon what I don't want is to stay in this hospital any longer than I have to.  Could you get me out of here?  Please?  I don't belong here no more."

     "Are you sure?  Really sure that is what you want, Ossie Mae?"

     "Yes'ums.  Yes ma'am."  Flatly.  Definitively.

     "Then of course, Ossie Mae.  I can help you with that."  Nurse Cassandra stood up, reaching into the pocket of her scrubs.  "One escape, coming right up."

     Nurse Cassandra turned to Ossie Mae's I.V. drip, moving quickly with practiced hands, emptying the contents of the syringe into the port on the line.

     And so it came to pass:  Nurse Cassandra, Ossie Mae's Angel of Death, sent her home to Jack and Daddy.

In the winter i set my heart down,
making note of it in this poem.

It was heavy with ice and frost,
and i was lighter for its loss.

i wanted to pass the note along,
missing you so, to cry out to you:

PLEASE!  I LOVE YOU!!
...but you don't hear me though...

In the approaching spring you called,
and the hollow in my ribs ached;

we spoke different languages through
string-less tin can phones;

i sought out the place where my heart lies,
though i fear it cannot be found:

i had mailed you that treasure map,
and you lost it in translation.

Hunting easter eggs in December,
and yet they seek me out instead.

i never find them at my pace;
standing, drunk, outside familiar
bars in the cold, randomly
dialing number combinations
to hear whispers or silences.

Radio wave transmigrations
they are, a look to the
past, a nod to the future,
a moment in stasis
where the keypad blurs,
doubles, focuses, blurs,
and i am lost one more time.

Crackling...

clearly static, the white noise
of separation, the
                    (hidden)
     message
             bro      ke  n
    a
        p
            a
                r
                    t,

perfectly human, but alone.

William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery.  Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.

     "Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother.  "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."

     "Yes, they would have," she replied.  "I'm ready if you are.  We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."

     William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag.  "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."

     Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant.  He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for.  The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents.  William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him.  Father had passed a year before either of his parents.  Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way.  Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.

     "All done!  Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said.  William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots.  Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby.  He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave.  Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place.  He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.

     After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own.  Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought.  "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"

     Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."

     "Oh.  I forgot."

Sitting in the circle of confession,
i am unmoved, at inaction,
only minorly involved in the
process of others, an observer
of them and processing me.

          God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things
          i cannot change,
                    (people, places, things)

i am quiet and respectful, knowing
that for some this is all they have,
that i am fortunate,
that we never flirted with disaster,
we openly courted it.

          the courage to change the things i can,
                    (me)

i hear the voices in the distance,
but i can't connect, my mind
wanders, thinking about prehistoric
jewelry in museum cases, broken
pottery shards unearthed with
great effort from ancient graves.

Were these items symbols of broken
promises?  A ring:  till death do
us part...a vase:  i will carry the
water for you...an arrowhead:  
i will protect you.  These things
hold a value that words
cannot ever truly convey.

i don't really understand how it works,
the promises i broke were the ones
i made to myself first, all the
others were incidental and yet
so equally destructive...

my track marks have faded with
disuse, but everything that it was
and i wasn't are now forever
tattooed under my skin, something
that is always only mine to
observe and behold, something
terrible and yet darkly beautiful.

          and the wisdom to know the difference.

i empathize with the lost, but
i do not share.
They would understand, but as
they learn more
i comprehend less,
and i know where that road leads.
So i remember when i should
be listening, and i will keep
what i have earned.

          *Just for today.

House plants are hostages
we take while we rob  
the bank of life for
all the experience notes we
can carry safely away.

We are using the funds
to build our vivarium
homes, microcosms of
the world beyond our walls
where we first glimpsed
the scheme.

The machinery of the world,
greased by blood and sweat,
remains beyond our control
while at large, yet
under our close supervision
we coax submission
out of our captives for
our own enjoyment:

selfish, ambivalently cruel
benefactors, dispensers of
our plants' waters of life.