Four Voices for the Afterlife

i.m. M.M. (April 4, 1960–November 13, 1993)

Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, As one incapable of her distress.

—Hamlet, IV. vii

November 15, 1993:

When she comes to you Still clenched, terrified and sad, Escort our sister to a small salon, A hearth-lit, crackling den Where maple logs unlock their supple blue And mesmerizing copper light. Give her a blanket, as soft as mink, A satin pillow For our weary sister’s head. And may she only hear That little trickling sound of fire.

Because you have no right words For loneliness and sorrow there, Because all that has happened Cannot be undone, Persuade our parents’ daughter not to speak. Instead, delight her as they did When she was pink and young, With a glaze of fresh orange On her suckling lips, The buttery and golden weight Of honey on their daughter’s tongue.

Ringlet of waterdrop. Sweet flowerfold Of steam. After a hot, gray-vapored bath, bring her lemon-yellow towels, a robe As white as morning milk. Perfume That chamber for our brother’s resting wife, With hyacinth and clove, the good, Clean scent of pear. Each night, Light candles on her windowsill. Reacquaint her with a deep, Oxygen-inebriated sleep, That slumber our rambunctious nephews know, Her puzzled sons who spent This umber Monday afternoon Marauding in the yard, And who, just now, have come indoors, Their faces cold and raw, Smelling of stone and soil and early snow.

September 6, 1994:

We see her sometimes in our dreams. She is impossible as pollywogs To snatch or swallowtails. Our mother teases us At freeze-tag, hide-and-seek and prisoner’s base. Bobwhite! Waxwing! Whippoorwill! Crow!Who will catch me when I go? She is impossible to snatch As skinks or damselflies. We see her sometimes in our dreams, Do you? A weeping woman who Has lost her boys. We are your boys, We always say. Then mother Stops her weeping, wipes her eyes, And walks away. School started yesterday And we, we were her brave young men, As clean, she liked to say, as whistles, washed And combed, obedient, polite. We rode Our beastly yellow rumble-bus. We greeted Mrs. Wilkie At the schoolhouse door. And then, inside, it came again— A collywobble, queasy feeling. Those stomach-churning, sweet Odors of floor wax, lunchroom food, And finger paint. On Saturdays She used to make French toast, Dusty with powdered sugar, soaked In maple syrup. Now, Our father cooks us cream-of-wheat instead.

January 7, 1996:

Ours is an old, embarrassing cliché. Tea lights. Martinis on the rocks. Two out-of-towners in a lounge Whose friendly chit-chat somehow led To innuendo, then Advances of a kind that cause A self-respecting soul to cringe. And eight years later, here it is, Her ivory, wallet-softened business card Among these ballpoint pens, A random champagne cork, Odd matchbooks and a small confetti pile Of Chinese fortunes in my office drawer. Things happen, as they say. An elevator ride. The light Gardenia scent of her perfume. Lobe. Lip. And a lover’s breath. That awkward after-silence, then a cheap And punctual remorse. Once in a while, I wonder what she thinks of me. Henry, our fat, black Barrel-chested Labrador, Still tuckered from his morning run, Absorbs a picture-window spill of sun, And like a silver bell, My wife’s bright laughter rings the whole house through. A dishpan clatters in the kitchen where Our robed and slippered daughters Clamor for breakfast and a fire. The rich and rising smell Of bacon wakes the Sunday morning air. What more could anyone desire?

August 11, 2001:

You haven’t smoked in years and yet, After the cocktails and the Cotes dû Rhone That utterly superb And gratifying tenderloin, Grilled peaches, sautéed corn, And mango-lime sorbet, you crave The toasted flavor of a cigarette, When, summoned like a ghost, Invisible to everyone but you, A girl named Martha McEnroe appears, Tomboyish, muscular and lean, Black braids and bangs, Those glacial...