All My Favorite Poets are Dead

I could lament about Shakespeare or Donne,
Dickinson or Hopkins, or Frost but I will cry
for Tony, Donald, and James.

Who opened and closed worlds
to me.

Who dreamed my dreams
and entered and exited nightmares.

Who made me stop.
And made me go.

Who swim in the ocean of my brain.

Who, without their knowledge,
unlocked, unzipped, and unraveled me and
Jesus became someone I could sit with
and cry with, for a moment
then he would take his molten hot finger
and plunge it into my body
and open all my wounds;
even healing some of them.

Observing the Inside of James Tate's House While Delivering Him Meals on Wheels

I had already been to houses--

front doors like air-locks releasing strange

smells and stories seeping

into the atmosphere and into my blood stream.

Volunteering can be tiring 

and then I got the call

to deliver a meal to James Tate.

This was before he died.

He's never been a celebrity to me

reading his quiet words in some dark corner

of my apartment or  out loud to my family

around our sparsely crammed dinner table

or standing up late at night in my underwear

in my favorite place next to the book shelf

taking in his stories.

When I read How to Be a Member

God pierced me with a sword

and began to dismantle my need

to belong to this world

and my tears were hot and violent and sad.

The directions said the door would be open

to enter his house and leave the meal

on his counter.

I saw fields and skyscrapers of books.

It was a large medieval village on his desk

the books leaning into one another; a crowded

imagination. 

I tip toed to his kitchen counter

and I wanted to whisper out, James.

But the words would not come.

I closed the door behind me

and left him, with a sandwich and some chips-- 

his buzzing thoughts.

This is based on a real life event. I volunteered for Amherst Community Center's Meal on Wheels program back in 2011. It was one of the more surreal experiences of my life!