The Reason We Breathe

Only this morning, my mother died
as I sat holding her hand.
Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth wide
Only this morning, my mother died
I watched her chest heave; the oxygen tried
to fill up her lungs, as nature had planned.
Only this morning, my mother died
as I sat holding her hand.

Heaven

Holy
Ever
After,
Victorious
Eternal
Ninth Cloud

Herbert Joseph Budig

1931 – 2015

Picking Tomatoes

These are the cherry tomatoes my father picked

on the morning he died

He woke at 7:15, missing the sunrise by half an hour

on the morning he died

He pulled on his summer robe and brown leather slippers

on the morning he died

And made his way upstairs to the kitchen

Dug around in the container-drawer

For a plastic dish then stepped outside

His back yard faces southwest, there was dew on the grass

Sunlight slanted between the houses

And cut across the pepper plants and rose bushes

On the morning he died

He didn’t hesitate as he drew his feet through the lawn

On the morning he died

His fingers found the bright red balls surrounded by green leaves

On the morning he died

He filled up his cup with cherry tomatoes,

Which I am now eating one by one

Today, August 31st

My father died while eating
peanut buttered toast and sliced bananas

Before he finished his last bite
his head fell back as if to inspect
a cobweb on the ceiling

This is how my mother found him
when she returned to the breakfast table
carrying her toothbrush smeared with mint paste

“I felt for a pulse at his neck, but
there was no beat,”
she explained for the eighth time

Neighbors flood the phone lines
and stuff the refrigerator full
of wild rice hot dish, tuna salad, and slaw

Instead of his arms hanging limply
at his side, Mom described how they were spread out
palms up, his devotional still open on the table

Like a skydiver prepared to take flight

The Sweetest Drink

Yesterday morning, she didn’t awaken

Sometime at night, as stars shined
Her final breath left her forsaken

Moonlight bathed the living room, outlined
a fleeting hospice, this snippet in time.
Earth’s incessant crush confines

Yet in death, it slips away, like a dime
through her frail fingers.
We mix life and death in a sublime

porridge over which we linger,
then lick our lips, taste the sweet
prick of death as it malingers

close enough to trap all in complete,
eternal verdict. It snags my arm,
but I do not concede its grasp or retreat.

Death has come for her, it signals no alarm
as it curls and caresses up her form.
It purrs, “Come willingly, there’ll be no harm.”

I watch her aura as she faces the imminent storm
Susurration amongst the clouds, she hears
a bugle’s echoing call as if to inform.

Then walks the path, picking primrose and baby’s tears,
clutching bouquet to her face.
Yet the perfume abates and disappears.

To her lips she presses the loving cup her hand at last has taken. 

Forecast

My bedroom is the same,

as one year ago--  

darkness mixed with night light

casting static on the walls,

snow-clouds lowering the ceiling,

jets roaring overhead,

delivering night-riders to warm beds.

And I’m lying here next to my son who is one

year older now.  I’ve aged a century.

He nestles his head

into the hollow of my armpit. 

My husband’s voice drifts from down the hallway

reading The Velveteen Rabbit, our daughter’s favorite.

I catch the blurry words, Fairy she had gone--

then silence.  

My baby sucks his thumb,

fast,     slow,

at last, rhythmically.

A sigh escapes into blackness.

Squeaking away from the mattress,

tears trace down

my temples, tickling my neck.

One year ago,

she lay in her bed,

not hearing the rain. 

Head throbbing, purple

pain pounding out of her skull,

lightning taking a snapshot of misery.

One year ago

we did not know 

the forecast—

Even now, it is not clear.

Why our family,

why her?

She was forty-three.

Swedish Blues

My sister, Jaci, and Marguerite in 1988. 

Her Swedish blue eyes, never wan
As she sits, concave in her chair
Kyphosis has claimed
Her regale deportment
Has left her gasping for air

She pants a warm invitation
“Pray, sit, the seat is not taken.”
I perch on her couch
And gaze in her eyes
Her beauty not yet forsaken

The air hangs vacant of words
Her thoughts have scurried away
I wonder aloud
Is there anything, Mum
Say the word and I will obey

She smiles again between breaths
You have five children, she asks
I nod in agreement
What else can I do
Then adjust her oxygen mask

My tongue in my mouth is like lead
Her final example: ascesis
Pills at her disposal
A handful could end
Her grasp on life releases

But the easy way, she will not take
As days turn to nights without end
She patiently waits
For her turn in line
When Jesus will bid her ascend

--for Marguerite 

The Last Fugue

That’s the way it sounds to me
My hand dragging in the water
As you bow her violin in key
We laugh and drink Vichy water

My hand dragging in the water
The contrails in the sky
We laugh and drink Vichy water
You say her name, but I don’t cry

The contrails in the sky
Hang like my heart in stasis
You say her name, but I don’t cry
I give you my last quarter with two faces

Hang like my heart in stasis
Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
I give you my last quarter with two faces
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin

Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
As you bow her violin in key
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin
That’s the way it sounds to me