Midnight

“It’s about Mom.”

Still watching the monitor, Jack said, “What about her?  Did she burn another pot roast on Sunday?”

“Yeah.  And she’s got a brain tumor.”

Jack whipped his head toward Jonah.  “A what?”

“A brain tumor.  They can’t operate on it.  Dad says she’s got a few months.”

“To live?”

“Yeah.”

Jack sat back in the booth; he looked as if someone had just hit him in the stomach with an empty beer pitcher.  “Holy shit!  How long have you known?”

“Since Sunday.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You know how they are.”

Jack snorted, before his face fell again.  “But only a few months…really?”

Jonah nodded.

“She still has all of her hair, though!”

“They’re not going to do chemo.  It won’t help, so Mom doesn’t want it.”

“What about Dad?”

“He said it’s up to her.”

“Oh, great.  He’s leaving critical life-or-death decisions to the biggest ditz on the planet,” Jack said, and grabbed his coat.  “I’m going over there.  Someone has to talk some sense into her, and it seems like I’m the only one in this family willing to do it.  I’ll see you later.”

One

I have heard you

echo in the distance

I have heard you

whimper through the radio

It is my fault

I brought you here

We were so very much alone

Hiding in Plain Sight

“I just talked to Mom,” Jonah said.

His father looked away.

Neither of them spoke for a while.  Eventually Jonah asked him, “How long?”

“Three or four months.  They’re not sure.  Never are.”

“And there’s no treatment?”

“No.”

“You checked?”

“Yes.”

“Does Jack know?”

“Not yet.”  His father paused.  “Maybe you could tell him." 

Jonah did not particularly want to.  But something about hearing his mother sing “You Sexy Thing” in the other room prompted him to answer, “Okay.  I’ll tell him on Tuesday.”

Release

Tell her the devil is pounding

on the gates

salivating

waiting

God reserves a special place for you

It is where the clouds burst and bang

the loudest

It is His business to forgive

not mine.

Locked Away

“Oh, it’s some kind of tumor.”  His mother waved a dismissive hand.  “Who can understand a thing those doctors say nowadays?”

"But are you going to be all right?”

“Hmmmn.  Now where did I put that phone number again?”

“Mom,” Jonah loudly interrupted, “are you going to be all right?”

“What, dear?  Oh, that.  No, I don’t think so.  Tumors aren’t good, you know, and they can’t operate on it for some reason or another.”

“What are you saying?  Are you going to die?”

“Well, we’re all going to die, dear.”

“I mean soon!”

“It seems that way.  Can you help me find this phone number?”

Jonah stood there, watching his mother search the roll top desk that used to sit in Grandma Mueller’s dining room.  She’d missed a button on the back of her housedress, so that one of the tiny pink plastic buttons stuck out on top by the collar.  “Cheer up sleepy Jean,” she was singing to herself.  “Oh, what can it mean?  To a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen…”

The View From Here

I was one fear closer to here

lost in a night too dark for sleeping

was it me on the ledge        or was it you

whispering                                                             

                                                                 

                         don’t give up too soon

don’t give up

too soon               

when I am breaking           

I am a fool

where do I stand

I am a piece of stone mixed in

with all this sand

                                                               

yet full of proof

of what died         with you

                               

why did you bring me here to my cyclone second

when rage engulfs this bridge from earth to heaven                    

cinder through and through                                                                                                                                                           

                       you ask too much                           you do

for one whisper like the hint of water splashed on embers

for one storybook of dreams with its message tethered 

to the fading metal moon    

the sun  it can  be cruel

now that I gave too much                 too soon                                                                                 

                                                Is this your plan  

             

is this your one    

your great             

your smoky last demand  

or

my intention

my blue-flame doom

  

because

burned across my heart your forgotten message

the language lost in time with the words rewritten

resuscitate the girl she is out of breathing

collapsed under the hope she could not believe in

the soot was in her eyes she could only cry

was this my one great truth

  

did I give up

                too soon?

                

Fire Dance

“Just before your friend Andy came back here,” Alturis said, meticulously peeling an apple with the butcher knife he'd found in her kitchen drawer, “he shot and killed someone.  Did he tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well he did.  Even more unfortunate, that person happened to be my brother.”

Meg just looked at him.

“Apparently your Andy had never killed someone before," Alturis continued; his tone suggested that he found this detail amusing, even endearing.  "It disturbed him.  So he took a leave of absence and came here.  Which is where we found him.  And you,” Alturis added, as if it were impolite not to mention her place in his diabolical scheme.  “Bad information led me to—what was their name?—the Gergens or the Bourbons or whoever.  It’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t know.  I’m not in the market for henchmen.”

“And a good thing for you, too.”

“But that doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asked, smiling again.