Painting by the Sea (the poem that is buried with my father)

For Eitel, going home

Things were always in the cupboard upside down
as if reversing labels was far too much to mind
and order over time breaks down anyway
I have for you everything but this.

In every painting by the sea
brushstrokes bite across parted lips
the taste of salt, that tilt of head
the person by the ocean is the same
standing still in the constant motion.

That same stare and turn of affect
that same coat flicking in the wind
arms folded keeping the wrap
closed around the chest
a state of being so common
no one's ever named it.

Birds land and walk in circles
scratchy prints in the wet sand
spelling out words he couldn't ever say.

In some paintings there is a boat
as if to say there is always
some way to another
collection of sadness
better sorrows, different regrets.
The boat leaves at sunset
and we could be on it.

The wrappers in the kitchen
fall to the floor
rustle across the threshold
and come to rest in a corner.
A cup of coffee cold for weeks
waits for groggy footsteps
that will never come again
and laughter faded long ago.

The painting opens like a window over the sofa
and the boat sails away.

E-mail:databirds@aol.com


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