Nocturne<\/p>\n
In the early hours of the morning,
\nAt 2:30 and sometimes after,
\nI would hear my father,
\nUnable to sleep, couching,
\nHis footsteps moving about,
\nAs he transformed the kitchen
\nInto a concert hall,
\nWith refrigerator doors closing loudly.
\nJars could be heard opening.
\nTheir vacuum seals hissing,
\nLids rolling, spiraling and strumming
\nAcross table or countertop,
\nThe sound of him rummaging
\nThrough the silver for knife, fork
\nOr spoon, and the glupp-glupp of him
\nPouring a soda, the fizzle of it
\nIn the glass.<\/p>\n
Some nights now I wake up
\nAt 2:30 or sometime after,
\nUnable to sleep.
\nIn the summer, I sit out
\nIn the quiet on the front porch step,
\nIn winter, in the darkened living room
\nAt the rolltop desk, but always
\nAvoiding the kitchen.
\nIndeed, I tiptoe through it, for the
\nSilence there has grown
\nInto a monument to him,
\nAnd I fear that if I click the
\nGlass of the pimento olive
\nAnd the sweet pickle jars
\nIt will disturb his peace,
\nAnd any slight rattle of silverware
\nWill conjure his spirit.<\/p>\n
Conversation With Grandma<\/p>\n
She is so beautiful
\nWhen she talks to her grandma,
\nSitting on a corner edge
\nOf the hospital bed
\nAs she listens intently
\nTo grandma’s broken
\nEnglish, nodding her head
\nAt certain statements
\nWhich causes her hair tied
\nIn a pony tail to wag
\nCutely up and down,
\nSometimes side to side, and
\nSometimes it spirals in circles,
\nSome of them round,
\nSome more elliptical.<\/p>\n
She is so beautiful
\nWhen she talks to her grandma,
\nSitting on the bed absorbed
\nIn conversation, with animated hair
\nTied back in an expressive tail and
\nLike a conductor’s baton it
\nSeems to set and moderate
\nThe pace of conversation,
\nAnd at that moment I want only
\nTo study all the aspects of
\nPony-tail physics,
\nTo steep myself in the
\nSmall details of the science
\nOf silent motion
\nThat accompanies and punctuates
\nA conversation with grandma.<\/p>\n
Last Words<\/p>\n
I had a dream I met
\nThe ghost of my father
\nIn an all-night supermarket.
\nI was walking down the produce
\nAnd frozen food aisle
\nWhen I saw him following me,
\nWalking close behind,
\nBut I did not recognize him
\nUntil he spoke the name
\nOf my childhood: “Hi Dougie.”
\nAs I heard his voice
\nI knew him at once.
\nI turned to hug him,
\nAnd for one long moment
\nIn the brightly lit store
\nBetween the prickly pears
\nAnd frozen pizzas
\nWe stood embracing.
\nHe never spoke again,
\nAnd I too not speaking,
\nJust held him.<\/p>\n
Winter Pears<\/p>\n
On a wooden swing hanging
\nFrom the highest bough
\nOf his backyard pear tree
\nWe learned to fly at the
\nSpeed of dreams on summer
\nAfternoons, leaning back
\nAnd gripping rusted
\nChains and looking far up
\nInto thick foliage that hid
\nThe dark limbs that held us.<\/p>\n
From the tall tree that grew
\nSmall winter pears
\nI’d fly with him across the
\nSummers and briefly
\nForget for a moment
\nMy parent’s marriage,
\nThe family finances,
\nMy sister’s sickness.
\nIn quick motion sweeping us
\nUpward, we learned to fly.<\/p>\n
Before I knew of fallen fruit
\nOr how spring winds
\nWaste pear blossoms,
\nI knew him. He flew
\nUnfettered and without
\nCares where dreams
\nGrew slow like winter pears
\nOn the highest branches
\nTo ripen and fall only
\nIn late summer.<\/p>\n
Today, under a pear tree
\nDrooping with fruit
\nI dreamt him here.<\/p>\n
Scott Fountain<\/p>\n
There is a renaissance fountain
\nOf white Italian marble
\nIn a city park. On occasion
\nI still go there, for it holds
\nThe magic of my childhood.
\nMy grandfather and I would visit it
\nOn summer afternoons.
\nHe would always open
\nHis pocket change holder,
\nIn slow motion and pick
\nOut a coin for me to toss
\nIn the water with my wish.
\nIn the sounds of the
\nStreams spraying upward,
\nIn the glint of silver coins through
\nThe water, I think of him.<\/p>\n
There is a renaissance fountain
\nOf white Italian marble,
\nThat my grandfather
\nAnd I would visit,
\nThat holds all my old wishes,
\nThe heavy heartfelt ones
\nThat sink swiftly in the turbid
\nWaters and lie invisible
\nOn colored tile bottom
\nGrown over with algae.
\nThey remain unseen and
\nWaiting, as requests from
\nThe devout sometimes await
\nGod’s granting. Wishes
\nAre secular prayers.
\nI know this, for whenever
\nI hold a Mercury dime or
\nIndian-head nickel
\nI wish he were here.<\/p>\n
– Doug Tanoury<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Nocturne In the early hours of the morning, At 2:30 and sometimes after, I would hear my father, Unable to sleep, couching, His footsteps moving about, As he transformed the kitchen Into a concert hall, With refrigerator doors closing loudly. Jars could be heard opening. Their vacuum seals hissing, Lids rolling, spiraling and strumming Across … <\/p>\n