Brothers
My uncle dies in his favorite armchair
while watching football, having just eaten
dinner, a martini in hand. His alma mater
scores a goal and he hoots as though he himself
has carried the ball across the finish line,
winning the game for his team. He slips away then
like the ice from his sweating glass
onto the avocado carpet, a sheen of utter
content on his face. My father battles lung cancer
for five slow years, taking so much longer to
reach the end, a pain crawl really, his bone-deep pride
brittle on the field. No shoulder pads or heroic knees,
knocked around mercilessly, he is unwilling
to relinquish the fight. Their friends applaud
and mourn them equally, flock like fans
to their lilied caskets, then file their way out
into blessed sunlight, fingering the ticket stubs
in their pockets.
*
Origami
Is it strange that I don’t have a bucket list,
that all I want already fits in my life? And
what if I told you that I look forward to the
crossword after lunch, smoked Lapsang Souchong
at 4:30? That I cherish the sound of the dog’s
leash as it comes off its hook, the ecstatic leaps
she makes when that jangle tricks her arthritic
bones into believing she is agile and ageless
for half an hour a day? Would you think me
boring if I claim more than small satisfaction
at the pleasure of opening that great book
next to that great man I’ve shared a bed with
for 23 years? Japan calls, of course it does.
A singular want that fits in a cup: the haiku of
its vermillion Torii gates and blossomed benches,
the quiet bathing trees. The golden trails of
kintsugi cracks and blood-red lanterns, swaying.
The idea is wonderful, yes. But so is the now
of thick salty feta on a slice of toasted sourdough
eaten at the counter off of paper plates. So is
stepping outside in his flannel shirt to hear
a pair of koukouvagia preening each other under
a salt spill of stars, the constant creek running
to where? and where? and where? until the cold
and dark remind me the covers are still thrown back,
each fold waiting to be shaped again into something beautiful.
*
Ellen Rowland is the author of two collections of haiku/senryu, Light, Come Gather Me and Blue Seasons, as well as the book Everything I Thought I Knew, essays on living, learning and parenting outside the status quo. Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals and in several poetry anthologies, most recently The Wonder of Small Things, edited by James Crews. Her debut collection of full-length poems, No Small Thing, was published by Fernwood Press in 2023. She lives off the grid with her family on an island in Greece. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook
Beautiful, Ellen, this second poem, and not strange at all. Such articulate praise for the ordinary world. And such a story of two brothers–indeed the story of us all.
Thank you, Rosemerry, for the lovely feedback. The ordinary world is an extraordinary world, something you express so beautifully in your own writing.
Thank you, Ellen–I love the ending “fingering the ticket stubs /
in their pockets.”
Thank you, William. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment.
Ellen these are both beautiful! The first one really hits home. Partially because I remember both men but mostly because you literally tell the story of Tom and Mary. He had just been to Parker’s 5th birthday party and was watching the Yankees game and sweet Mary who did everything she could to fight colon cancer. Once again you put your heart and words out to the universe and they fall on my shoulders like a comforting shawl.