Taproot

That first fall,
as the cancer quietly took root in you,
a hushed expectancy fell over the entire family.

Our breath still,
caught the mercurial second
between thinking you would live forever

and, finally, believing
that your flesh would fail, that you,
as sturdy as your ’69 burgundy Cadillac,

would slowly sag and wilt,
succumb over the next ten months
to the rabid cells sprouting inside your throat;

growing, evolving, perfecting
their murderous purpose. Through the quick
succession of CAT Scans, MRI’s, radiation therapy;

each doctor’s appointment,
one less hour to know you in the house
that was the theater of all my childhood memories.

I remember still,
the early Sunday mornings
spent watching cartoons while you read the paper.

Quietly, you would fuss
with the different sections, cursing under
your breath and groaning as you lay back on the couch.

In the final days,
as terminal, inoperable, hopeless, Bed B,
were routinized into our language, replacing

your mumbled, “Jesus Christ!”s,
the shouted vernacular of Brooklyn, the stem
of your demise planted seeds in our throats as well.

Though, in our case,
they sprung up through our mouths
flowering into sobs as your raucous voice slowly ceased.

Thumb Bruise

For Cliff

It’s taken me a while to get

used to it. It was weeks before

I could stare down at my nail and

not feel nauseous. When I met Cliff

I was whole; intact, that is. I remember

distinctly the WHACK! The billiard balls

scattering across the pool table. My thumb

raised to make a perfect bridge for the cue stick.

I said goodbye to Paul, unaware that

the door was crushing my thumb in its

hinges. Cliff frowned and said I was too

young but later asked me home with him.

My face contorted. I felt to blame for the

whole situation. Lansdowne Street was a long

winding block that could make you dizzy.

Cindy suggested I go outside and get some air.

I guess I let things move too quickly. Maybe

it was too cold outside. All I know is that

Fifth Avenue began to spin. Cliff smiled at me

and began to pull my shirt off over my

head. I could feel my whole body begin to go limp.

That nail’s gonna fall off, Cheryl said. Cliff

stuck my finger in his mouth and began to

roll his tongue around the nail. Blood began

rising to the surface. Slowly. He peeled my

pants down my legs. The nail fattened after

a few days, scabs forming underneath.

Leonard Cohen played softly in the background.

My face flushed with pain. I looked down at

the bruised finger. The next morning, I woke

with a dull ache in my head.

It took me a long time to get

back to Boston. The nail turned black

before it fell off. I became attached,

I guess. I’m still afraid of getting hurt,

even accidentally.

After the Trick

For Brian, whose last name I never knew.

1.

Looking no worse for wear,

I push the “Door Close” button

on the hotel elevator.

The door slides shut

and now there is enough distance

to gaze in the mirror.

There are no signs

of where your tongue went

along my unfamiliar skin.

The slight flush of passion

is retreating from my cheeks

replaced by discrete freckles.

My hands that had traveled

the small routes of your hips,

now smooth my collar and seams.

The elevator door opens

and there is no visible evidence,

just the small memory of your touch.

2.

Back home, the dogs sniff your scent

from the folds of my cotton pants.

They are suspicious and a little jealous.

Who have I spent my night with?

I can tell them only of your good manners;

how politely you asked me to leave

and how you lay there, the “boy next door,”

while I looked for my socks in the dark

where they hid underneath your “wife-beater”

T-shirt, small, gray, and helpless.

I sat on the edge of the bed pulling

the right sock up my calf, then the left;

while you made brilliant small talk

that smoothed the transition from trick

to the “click” of the hotel room door

closing behind me like a quiet period.

3.

I cannot tell the story

and feign innocence

the battered history

only makes sense

when you understand

that I cannot transcend

the memory of one-night stands

and the tired end

of my last relationship

which I recount in gory detail

punctuated with witty quips

and I laugh to no avail

as we joke about my

“good Catholic boy” looks

that only magnify

my slutty “Catholic

school girl” ways

and how in a fever

at 2 a.m., I stray,

more so tonight than ever,

from morals, good breeding,

and common sense

I know where this is leading

but is it worth the penance?