Til' Death Do Us Part


By M.J. Tenerelli

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For Jack; as explanation. To Kate; for inspiration.

 

 

 









For Sonny



I watched my father die
And it was gentle;
A simple cessation of breath
After so much suffering.
I grieve for my loss
But not for him.
He is in some celestial poolhall
In eternal Brooklyn
With a full head of hair
And a sharp suit.
Later he will grab a cab
To Manhattan to see Sinatra
And dance at the Copa.
Dawn will find him
On a bridge
Tossing coins into the mythical Hudson.
One for Jack, to keep him safe;
One for Kate, "Be content baby";
And one for Matthew, "Stay warm."
Then he lifts off for Japan
After the war.
The sun glints off guardian wings.






The Intensive Care Cafe




We brought you in and they laid you out
On a gurney next to an angry man
Whose sister wouldn't shut up.
The curtain between you was no match
For her fear and his impatience.
Was it his gallbladder again?
You were dying quietly.

The priest had to turn around on the Merritt,
To come back for last rites.
I went for coffee like everything was normal.
The sign in the basement said
"Intensive Care," with an arrow,
and "Cafe" underneath it.
I brought you back a joke.
"Here's coffee from the Intensive Care Cafe,"
Forgetting you don't find me funny
In the best of times.

I rub your feet and you like that;
Dutiful instead of smart-ass.
I think about going into labor
In Barnes and Noble at Christmastime;
You trying to drag me out by the arm,
Me still shopping.
"I've been through this before," I tell you,
"Don't panic."
Now I try taking my own advice
While your oxygen level refuses to light up the monitor.
I'm mistrusting everybody here for you.
Your golf shoes, the grandkids, your black Lincoln,
Are all in the parking-lot, waiting







Bug



Here comes the deadly trio.
Today they're here to talk
About feeding tubes,
And how fast the cancer is going to spread,
Because chemo charred your throat
And you can't have any more treatment.
Doctors 1, 2, and 3 look us in the eyes and smirk.
We are troublesome, stupid, and nagging as gnats on the beach.
We are so stupid we think we have the right
To ask questions. To stare back. To notify their superiors.
They shoot hospice options and dire scenarios
At the man in the bed who can sort
Out nothing they say. He can hear though
That he's despised in an impersonal way,
The way you might recoil at a roach,
Or a mouse in your clean kitchen cabinet.
If the good doctors could do what they want
They would order a nurse,
(Those doers of dirty work)
To crush you under crepe-soled shoes,
And mop up the mess.
Silverfish; insignificant; air breather.






Finish Line



We all know it's your last day
And duck out when we can
To breath the air
Outside your room.
Death smells bad;
The flesh giving over in noxious inches.
We sit vigil as long as we can, after all we are wanted.
Making us witness to this withering
Is your last show of strength.
Who among us has ever told you no?
In all honesty, we can hardly tear ourselves away.
Something this horrible has got to be seen to be believed.
And then there is the love.
It sends us out to the lounge
When breathing you in becomes impossible,
And back to your fetid bedside
When easy oxygen
No longer works
Its simple appeal.





Career Crisis



I think I missed my calling.
I am a writer
But I could have been
A planner of parties, a custom caterer.
Just look at the grace and efficiency
That went into your farewell gala:
A quick survey of homes,
A once over for each director;
And an informed pick of a pine box,
Varnished cherry for tony presentation.

Simple surroundings,
Spare yet moving readings,
And tasteful memorial cards,
Were all on my list,
To be meticulously ticked off.
I took care to create
An occasion to be fondly remembered.

That attention to perfect detail
Helped pull a protective tarp
Over the frightful flop of that other gathering.
There was a party that couldn't be prettied;
An intimate crowd
Of your nearest and dearest
Without the balm and benefit
Of floral arrangements and your final silence.
THAT shindig's theme was the brutal here,
Not the sweet hereafter, or the whitewashed what was.
It was filled with your frantic pantomimes
For more morphine, your moans
And shrieks and arm restraints.

There was some mingling when the drugs kicked in,
You conferring with the already dead
While the rest of us stood around
Dumb and uncomfortable as wallflowers,
Secretly wishing for a chorus
Of "The Party's Over,"
And everybody home
By dawn.






Toil and Trouble



I'm exhausted with your dissatisfactions.
The rueful shake of the head over unmatched socks,
The endless lectures on food preparation and storage.
Well you're not what I expected either bunny,
With your mental preening
And the stink of Friday night revelries
Rising off your body in a fog
Of stale whiskey vapor.
The children love you and are learning
To think me stupid by example.
Careful, genius.
When we met you thought I had a touch of the hag,
(Kabbala in the cupboard, runes on the shelf)
And to tell you the truth I'm trying.
There's curdled milk in your coffee
And I'm cursing our union daily.
If we're patient you'll pass
With no push from me;
Stop for a six in a terrible place,
With excellent results.
The shiv in your belly
Will cut the rope from my wrists.






Postpartum Mama



I put the baby to my breast
And wince. This incessant feeding
Is going to kill me. I dream
Of gliding off the roof
Of our little brownstone,
Free for the five seconds
It takes to make contact
With the pavement.
This seems so reasonable to me.
The child looks more like a life sentence
than love. I watch my husband sleep
And wish him dead too.
The gravity of what we have done
Pins me like a sandbag.
I can't move but I can think
About suicide; murder; flight.
I cradle my son with a horrible sadness.
He needs another mother and I
Begin a list of possibilities.
I will attach them
To the nursing pillow, a goodbye note
Teeming with mother love and madness.
The ink in my pen
Is foreign chemical and pure terror.






The Damn Prozac isn't Working Anymore



I live in fits and starts.

I sleep away the hot

Afternoon under a slow fan.

At night, I torture myself wide-eyed

With my deviant domesticity.

My iron is always cold

And the kids are a mess.

I am a single blotch

On this white picket landscape

And I care about the Joneses---

I am not well.

I coma through the daylight hours.

I am where I started,

With one hand breaking the waves,

Waggling for a life-raft and a clear map

Of the metropolitan area.

I am the raft,

The only lifeguard for miles;

But I can't seem to keep that

In mind. I am drowning

Myself. Greek chorus girls

Crowd the bleachers built

By my own pretty hands.






Resume



You're lucky you chose me.
My credentials check out.
Ask any woman I've been with.
This is what I do,
This is what I'm capable of.
I'll reorder your spice rack,
Crate your books for the basement and
Much prefer the back of your head
When I fuck you.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.
I'll look right through you when you cry,
Offer my back after nightmares,
Leave you alone in hard labor
And drink myself blind
On your birthday.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.
But the thing I do best,
And in this I have no rival,
Is the slow,
Sensual,
Sucking down
Of your soul, your soul, your soul.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.






Almost Bulimic



Oh love the loss of you
Is good medicine
I want to choke up
On a bad day.
Our boy lifts his brow, like you,
For the pleasure of my laughter.
It's then I sit on my hands
To keep my fingers
Out of my throat.






Asking For It



I have been used
To seeing myself through
The shifting prism of you.
Oh the dirty distortions
Disguised as illuminations.
Here, I am the fat lady,
My mouth ringed in chocolate.
There, a shrill and grasping crone,
Sharp to the touch.
And look over there,
A blinking changeling,
Head big as a melon,
Waiting to swallow you whole.
When did it become easier
To depend on your vision
Instead of my own?
Nice seeing-eye doggie.
I won't cross myself
Against the light
Into oncoming traffic.
You, Princie,
Can do it for me.





Take it From Me




You sing, he sings.
He won't be happy
Until you're silent.
Today human kindness
Moves me to warnings.
Tomorrow I'll go back
To calling you "Bitch."
Honey, he's already got you
In the back of the band.
Soon he won't smile at you
Unless you're seated
At a sideline table,
With your lighter in the air.
I barely escaped with myself.
If you're truly good and quiet,
He might marry you too.
Tell your sisters to wear black.






The Danger of Dating the Newly Divorced



My boyfriend says "Where did you come from?"
And I say, "Why honey,
I've crawled out of hell.
Can't you see?
I'm stinking of sulfur
And I've lost all my hair.
You can't think I'm here intact.
Infernos cleanse so indiscriminately.
My eyes are seared open now,
I see all the time.
The fatty flesh men fed on
Has melted down
To beautiful bone.
When touched, I rattle.
It keeps me awake.
The bad news is my heart,
The shrunken thing's smoldering
And won't conscience company
It can't trust.
Its judgement is terrible.
It makes mistakes.
It moves me to menace men
Who mean me no harm.
I lifted this pitchfork
Before I ascended and
I wield it with no good sense.
Get out of the way love.
I'm not to be trusted.






Night Drive



I want to get into the car
And drive on and on in the dark
Making for Santa Fe or New Orleans,
Anywhere but this house, this cape of claims
With its goose down, gimme's and get me nows.
I am not Rapunzel. I've no wish
To be climbed like Everest
And then obligated to provide
A cool drink, a warm bath
To the usurpers of my solitude.

In the car there is only the steering wheel,
The gas and the brake
To operate at will.
I have been alone, but not alone enough.
The children will have to go elsewhere
For mother care, and adequate feedings.
I will live on roadside apple pie and night air.
I will grow like Night Shade;
Shed my size and tower
Into the open sky with stars.
I will steal a convertible
And live lush on the lam.
Mother will always be somebody else:
The woman just in the corner
Of my sped up vision,
Shushing a backseat of brats
In a different lane;
A woman who bears
No resemblance to me.






Religious Concerns



The tub toys are thrown in
As a sign of faith. Stay warm water
Until the fill line is met.
We will get on with our days,
Scrubbed, dry and dressed.
The lights will stay lit
And the boiler sing on until Spring.
Oh Kali, credit my incantations;
Coax smiles from the kids
And stock my fridge
With bologna and peaches.
Let the check
Be in the morning mail.






If They Take the Kids Away From Me, Maybe I'll Sleep the Night



I am so tired
I can't keep up.
The food, the drink, the crumbs
To be swept from the broken linoleum.
"Read me a story; no I won't eat
Bananas; pull the car
Over and get the fruit
Out of my lunchbox before
I scream loud enough to
Break your eardrums!"
The creditor will take my check
Over the phone, payable tomorrow
And I'm too frightened
To listen to my recorded balance.
The eye twitch that started
When the Egyptian gunman sprayed
Bullets at the El Al gate,
Shows up now
At the slightest provocation:
Bee's nest in the shed, Railroad
Ties rotting and a danger.
The cat with the gash
In its head is on its own
And mommy cannot make a third
For Candyland.
She's asleep baby darlings,
Face to the back of the couch
Every single goddamned day of the week.






Bravado



"They're all messed up---"
Police officer in "Night of the Living Dead"

I am wandering around the house
Like a wounded animal.
I'm eyeing the merlot
And it's only nine a.m.
My habitat's been knocked flat;
My familiars picked off
Like ducks in a shooting gallery.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Someone's an excellent shot.
Father, mother, marriage
And Joyce in the tower;
Four dead ducks in a row.
I flip the bird to the carnival crack-shot,
"Can't catch me you bastard."
Then somebody backs over
The Pekinese across the street.
Wailing over a dead dog,
I see I'm on my knees;
A game bird,
Down and full of buckshot
Like everybody else.






Selective Vision




These are my children, and
This is my life.
Rain against the picture window,
The little one asleep
On the couch with a fever.
There are no men cartwheeling
From one hundred stories up,
No acrid wind in the trees.
My boy cuts catalog pictures
For an alphabet book, looks
For his glue stick. I warm
Coffee in the microwave.
There are no maps with escape routes
Stowed in the car, no
Discussion of anthrax saved
On my home computer.
A tower of laundry
Obscures what's down the pike.
I buy Halloween costumes
and methodically repeat, "These
Are my children and
This is my life."






Hope Does Not Spring Eternal



I am on the phone.
I have a list.
I won't
Take busy signals
For answers.
Saint Vincent's, Cabrini, anything
Downtown. Then Uptown.
Then Jersey.
Rumor had it
They shipped people there,
Legions of people
Who couldn't remember
Their names.
Sympathetic admitting clerks
Check their own lists
For me. "No one
By that name---NO
ONE BY THAT NAME---
Did you call
The Red Cross?"
It takes me
Three days to stop
Dialing. To throw
Away the list; go
Down to the church;
Get down
On my knees.





On the North Fork and Forgetting

Ah, Spring in New York.
Today the buildings are all
Where they should be,
And flowers fill the car.
I've got a lungful of lilac
And the sky is 9/11 blue.
Tonight I will sleep
In a room with pansy borders and
In the morning, walk the Peconic,
Breath in, breath out;
Watch gulls arc overhead
Instead of an endless loop
Of plate glass raining
From a perfectly clear sky.





Resistance is Futile



Everybody's dead here
At the house I grew up in.
Well almost; the daughter
Has nearly caught up. I dared
Not to miss you and
Look at the results.
Today the thermometer won't rise
Above freezing and I'm digging
Through your ugly colonial
Bureau for that old black one-piece,
To put on for the backyard.
How long will it take
To stop my heart, cease
The little crystalline puffs
From rising above
My blue lips? Out here
By the birdbath, the struggle
To be something other
Than dutiful is coming
To an end. In heaven
All will be as it should be;
I will jester on my cloud
Between the two of you;
Little clown; master distracter;
I know my place and I'm back
In it. Reclining flat
On a ratty towel I wait
To pick up where we left
Off; forgive, forgive
My foray away,
This ill-starred stretch
Toward the gears.
I will not switch, I'm
At your disposal,
No more dancing
For myself
In front of the mirror.
Did you miss me?
Did you miss me?
Oh god, dear god.
It's good to be
Back home.





Hard Work



Labor catches you struggling
Against the sweat it extracts that
You're stone sure you can't pay.
And then the joy of doing
Gets inside your cells and
You wonder how you ever lived
At rest. Even the final push
That sends the baby
Out from the salt sea of your belly
Tears from you a song of satori,
Indivisible from the suffering.






It's a Girl!



Before I gave birth,
I dreamed daughter as double,
Hothouse strawberry in a delicate bowl.
A December night brought
Katie strong and fierce.
Blazing, inedible berry
On a holly branch;
Jewel of a raspberry in a sticker thicket.
She is nobody's dessert, and
Too wild to be waked in china.
I have loved her so hard
My heart has burst into forest:
Moonseed, Sumac, and Mistletoe.
Like Kate I grow on now
Not for consumption.






Single Mother vs. Boy From a Broken Home



Boy we battle.
You want me
At arm's length
And then so close
I cannot breath
Easy; sweet boy
With eyes like mine
I inhale your clean scalp
When your back is turned
And sleep in your room
When you're away.
Too much loss, broken
Bones and homework
This year. My god,
You're only six.
I want you
To laugh in your sleep
Like you did
Before the ground shifted
Underneath us. I want
The toxic words
That fly thick
Through the honey
Of our first years
In this house
To mean nothing
In light of the love;
In the face
Of the love
That dipped down
And fluttered our hair
Late this afternoon
Over the plastic chess set
On our new front steps.






No Clemency


I dredge up all you've done,
An army to surround the piece of me
That remembers when you called
Me gorgeous and meant it. Oh
How you meant it
That night on the Bowery
Stumbling on slick sidewalks
Toward a party.
Later you presented me
To your dangerous friend in the Peruvian hat
As if I were Helen,
Or Guinevere or Juliet.
There was snow in your hair
And your glasses were wet.
I knew you would kiss me in the elevator.
I linger a little
Before giving the go-ahead.
I'm only human after all.
The prisoner's diaphanous skirt
Flutters in the wind.
She's lovely, but she's got to go.
I know the enemy when I see it,
And after ten long years
I know where my duty lies.






Worship



I have rented an office
Over a stationary store,
Near the railroad tracks.
The walls are the blush and blue
Of early dawn;
The floor is a polished honey lozenge.
Through the window, plain sky.
A deep plum robe hangs on a peg by the door.
I shake off my shoes in respect
When I enter,
Slip on the royal wrap and
Sit at my mac, reverent.
I bow my head
Before the musical chord
Indicating startup.
Spirit willing, sacred text follows.






Muse



When I start to succumb
To the seduction of being clever,
I drag myself back to the fire
Where the robed crone sits
Warming her hands while
The hot wind blows wave and roar
Through her tangled hair
And open mouth. Vision
And flame punctuate
The black, black plain.






New Mexican Lesson



I went to the Tsankawe National Park
For inspiration
And my muse laughed so hard
She split her sides and
Out flew a glossy crow.
It talked, of course,
This bird dug into my shoulder.
"Take in all the mountains you want
Sweetie. Gulp down the piney blue air;
Then go home
And write what you know:
A field so black
You can't see two feet
In front of you.
And something awake and hungry
Hidden in the trees."