Brave, and Mudlarking, Dead Horse Beach

Brave

A thin layer of ash,    fine debris, probably bone        coated the windshield

as we passed exit after exit    for the Garden State Parkway.        We took detours and back roads

while police blocked every onramp.    Blue lights pulsing.        Officers in yellow hazard vests

stood next to their squad cars    as we drove past midnight:        my soon-to-be husband, mother-in-law,

brother-in-law, and me    in a 1992 Grand Marquis        on our way to Virginia.

On the radio,    nothing but news and static.        All of us silent, sleepy, edgy,

uncertain, both absent and present    on an empty highway        driving past New York City.

I would never tell my daughter    that some nights I lie awake        listening for the raccoon I know is in the attic

but pretend isn’t there.    The scratching, the heavy scampering—        she hears it, too.

If he were here,    daddy would check things out.        If he were here,

mommy would not feel lonely.    We pretend to be brave,        bang on the walls,

play loud music to scare it away,    pray it does not have cubs.        Marriages fail.

There is no one else    to go up there        and get the little fucker.

On our day in court    my lawyer was late,        so the judge moved our case

to the afternoon docket.    We sat for hours        you on the left side,

me on the right    listening to failure after failure,        the quick dissolve of marriages into oblivion.

I remember thinking    Hallmark doesn’t make        a card for this:

the moment when the judge calls your name    and uses words such as        irreconcilable, broken, and final

and a swell, no a surge of tears    breaks as the judge        uncouples us.

You cried, too.    Neither of us looked at the other        or spoke.

When I turned around    You were gone.        You had left the building.

Before we arrived at the hotel    we took engagement photos        in our wrinkled clothes.

And before that    we watched the sun rise as we crossed        the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel.

And before that    we listened to Howard Stern around 5 a.m.        broadcast live, trying to find the right words. Any words.

And before that    you took the wheel from your brother        so he could get some sleep.

And before that,    silence.

And before that    you held my hand        as we rode in the back seat.

And before that    we were not allowed        on the Garden State Parkway.

And before that    we stopped for gas, sandwiches,        checked the check engine light somewhere in Connecticut.

And before that    there was a toll        on the Tobin Bridge.

And before that    I was on the phone        with the maid of honor

who would ride the bus    from Texas to Virginia to arrive by Saturday.        I thought she was crazy.

And before that    I was on the phone with my father        who said, be careful and I love you.

And before that    no flights were allowed        out of Logan Airport or anywhere.

And before that    I said yes.

And before that    you said yes.

And before that    I asked, Should we go through        with the wedding?

I would never tell my daughter    male raccoons have no part        in raising their young.

Mudlarking, Dead Horse Beach

They’re buried just past Winter Islandwhere the two-lane road windsaround the boardwalk at Salem Willows.Dead Horse Beach, where the cold-bloodedflanks and loins of work horseswere discarded far from Salem Proper.Here, the earth has taken them backand given us silt. Why have I come hereat low tide, mudlarkingfor bits of bottle and bone?Even the renegade skyhas turned its back on everycumulonimbus to be here.It is the day before Mother’s Day,the kids with him for the weekend.A breeze blows the new leavesof the willow trees sideways,their low-hanging branches lift and fallagainst the wind, and on a hill just abovea family reunion, the backs of brightly coloredlawn chairs face me, I hear the occasional laugh,smell the...