Iona

Dear Will: Sunday is your birthday.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot. There is a contingent of Der Deutsch here including a fellow called “David” and everytime I saw him I thought, “Wo ist Der David?”

I wrote two poems, thinking about you. The one that came quickly is good. The second, nicht zo gute. I read both at last night’s talent show and got through them without tears.

AFTER HESSE

My soul becomes a raven --
picking at the carcass of my love
pulling up a long strong of gut
bloated with the shit of memory

My soul, returning, questions me
asking why I’m stuck
when there is so much to digest;
when the shit is warm and sweet
and the maggots are so crunchy.

GANNET IN THE SAND

Ten years ago Iona called,
whispering “come, come, come find new life.”

But you’d already put a foot onto the path to elsewhere,
your long goodbye abandoning our life in bits and bobs.

And now, at teacher’s request, I walk her island sands
in search of death — and find it.

Flatter than Saturday,
eaten from within as parent flies
sparkle on the gannet’s snowy back.

With gold neck raked, beak out,
and black tipped wings outspread,
it could be flying in the sand.

I know your people think a
bird’s deposit on a head can bring
good luck.

I say a prayer that Sunday
on your birthday,
this spirit bird drops spirit crap
upon your now deep distant spirit cap.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.