Invitation to a Wake

(x = space)

x

x

Invitation to a Wake

(with a toast)

x

We invite ourselves to

A meeting of ourselves

To celebrate a life

No longer with us

With all the possibilities

Frustrated to resolve

This side of things

And we can’t drink ourselves

Into oblivion

Because oblivion has form

And so frustrates annihilation

Of our senses

Besides, we want

To remember

And with gratitude

Share memories,

Enumerate mortality

Until the count and everything

That counts

Is ready on both sides

x

To one or those no longer

But an absence,

Here are drinks

(one of these

per one of us)

To aid sensation that

We hope will aid selection

Of desired sun-and-shade

Remembrances

Of memory

To tell

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C L Couch

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Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

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Pointers

(x = space)

x

x

(x = space)

x

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Pointers

x

What shall we say

That life goes on?

It does

Life goes on

As we say a lot

Without the import

x

Better over there

That is the promise

There are hints over here

Should we see them

Should we not

Or choose not

They are there, anyway

x

Funny thing

About the faith

Almost in anything—

Nothing is presumed

By our believing

If it’s big

And good

If it’s small

And good

It is there, anyway

x

Our choice does not affect

Its existence

Or its offering

Nature still spirals everywhere

And persists

In mysteries of hexagons

x

Nature does not predicate

Or faith in that

From that

Or anything

Or ask for

Our predication,

Either

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C L Couch

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Photo by Kevin Bergen on Unsplash

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The Mystery of Richard Bruce

(x = space)

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x

The Mystery of Richard Bruce

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I think it’s Saturday

The twenty-eighth

I’m

I don’t

Really have to know

The sun is bright

Through filmy

(rented)

Windows

And on the dusty

Hardwood floor

(I can take

care of that)

And, well, he’s gone

Meeting God so closely

In ways we only

Imagine

And how much we do imagine

Is in the books

How much we want

To know

He was suffering

That’s over

I’m glad for that

Though catharsis should not be

The main reward

They know what to do

The professionals

My sister says

They’re really good people

Plus they know their jobs

The government

Has funded a good deal

Of everything that’s happened

Our tax dollars working

Is there one administration

Or another

To approve?

The family,

We talk with each other

And our friends

There won’t be a service

He made that clear

He approved a wake

An experience of drinking

And appreciation

Since we tend to be

Micks and Scots

And even if we weren’t

This gathering appeals

My sister

And her crew

(my brother-in-law and

nephew)

Had done so much already

The burden for

Being there

I guess I can relate

There was a lease

Apartment filled with furniture

A car

All the bureaucracy

That places our lives

In containment

Then the boxes must be emptied

When it’s time

There should be more

There must be more

There is

There is an end to pain

And remembrance

That’s on us

I’m trying to recall

His sense of humor

It will return

His last days might have

Been sullen

Save for staff

And asserting to my sister

He did not want

To be there

Though there was too much

To do

To allow for decent care

Anywhere else

Too much immobility

Too much medication

There are degrees

I understand

I made such decisions years ago

And do not like it

When there should be more

x

We’re down

To four now

In the immediacy

Of things

The math is weird

The hole

It feels substantial

Holes should have no feelings

Gaps are an absence,

After all

My feelings are dry and sad

Like edging on a desert

Upon waking

Or simply turning around

I want to feel grown-up

And I do

It is the wake that follows

A wave anticipated

Always a surprise

She’ll have the family in

One more burden

Though I think everyone

Will try to behave

(not a pub, you

know,

though even there)

We’ll ponder mysteries

Though I doubt

We’ll talk about them

Memories might be easier

We’ll look for something positive

Or funny

Or strange

He took off once

And I have no idea

What transpired

I was a child

I guess I wasn’t allowed

To know

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C L Couch

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My older brother Rick died on Thursday night. He died as if he were asleep, and I suppose he was. His last insistances were not to have a service and to have his ashes scattered (not held onto). A wake was approved.

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Photo by Kamil Feczko on Unsplash

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Familiarize

(x = space)

x

x

Familiarize

x

It’s my brother’s birthday

I have brothers

I have a sister

So do you

We’re in this together

What did Franklin say,

We hang together

Or we or each hang

Separately

x

That may sound crass

I may

A side-swipe at togetherness

I wish there were more

x

I wish there were more

Friendliness

Maybe in the Midwest

Or the South

You know

x

You know

The easy kind of

Hi, how-are-you kind

x

And for a moment

We mean it

Then move on

As if we all were brothers

And a sister

x

Our people

One by one

A crowd

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C L Couch

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Photo by Ravi Sharma on Unsplash

Street of Delhi, India.

Chandni Chowk, New Delhi, Delhi, India

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Late Cancer

(x = space)

x

x

Late Cancer

(diagnosed, lived out)

x

My brother

Might have to be moved

Again

He is frustrated

Wants to be home

Before he wanted to be

Elsewhere

But elsewhere isn’t working out

I understand

The purpose of a medical setting

Is not to settle in

But to leave

When well

Stay is contraindicated

Home

As it cannot be managed

Still remains the prize

x

He’s in pain

Palliation only goes so far

Before the pain

Folds in again

He’s also frightened

I would be

I am in contemplation

Though these are his days

And shall the cancer

Diagnosed too late

A year ago

Take him to another home

Prepared

At last

To last

x

But there’s today’s pain

I don’t know how to wish

The pain to go away

Without invoking

The scary, heavenly alternative

But prayers aren’t magic

We aren’t dealing with a genie

Waiting to misstep

Our hopes

In misspoken entreaties

Heal my brother

Still

Is every prayer’s day

That might make nothing happen

‘Til the pain-releasing thing

Must happen

Tragically for us remaining

For him who suffers

Most of all

x

It is late December

I agree it is a magic season

How much amazing

Might be borrowed

From days

Of extra stars and circles

Green and all the other colors

Only for him

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C L Couch

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Photo by Kalle Kortelainen on Unsplash

[photographer’s narrative]

A crisp afternoon around 3pm in Dalsjöfors, Sweden these incredible snowflakes appeared on the hood of our car. You can almost hear the crisp snow creaking under the soles of the winter boots by just looking at them. Pure natural magic.

Dalsjöfors, Sweden

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Cancerous

(x = space)

x

x

Cancerous

x

We’ve been five

Soon we will be four

That is the prognosis

Palliation

Hospice

These are discussed

And sought

For him

x

Out of order

Since he’s not the oldest

In mere math of life

It could have been me

I’m the one with the machine

To keep me going

But I guess

(today’s not over)

It’s not me

(for now)

x

The math doesn’t matter

Not important

Math matters elsewhere

In the dosage

Of his medication

In the number of his place

In the hospital

His apartment number

To which they say

He will not be returning

x

It’s not me

It’s him

He is important now

But I have to say

It’s been a problem all along,

Frankly, with me

I don’t know how to lose

A brother

x

And has he ever learned

To live with this

I’d say so

A mystery he did resolve

Through work

Through home

Maybe through old movies

He knows so well

x

And one day

All shall be all

God bless everyone

Who tries

Who’s trying now

One by one

Who practices with grace,

Each fitness for heaven

That shall be judged

By perfect love intending

Hoping that

Full health to be restored

x

God bless everyone

God bless each one

God bless Rick

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C L Couch

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Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

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The Latest

(x = space)

x

x

The Latest

(family things)

x

My brother’s in the hospital

I’m not sure what that means

He fell

I know that much

He spent the night outside,

Which I think must mean

There’s trauma

x

A body worked too hard

A body with cancer worked too hard

A neighbor saw him in the morning

And called 911

He’s hundreds of miles away

And he’s in the hospital

In downtown Pittsburgh

My sister says the hospital is good

Urban, smart, efficient

x

Everyone knows their jobs

And what to do for him

x

Now we know

We’re standing by

Something will happen

And we’ll all come in

It doesn’t have to take an ending

He simply needs to be in one place

Or another

For a time

x

What contemporary medicine allows

And Medicare affords

A rehab center

For new fractures

While his cancer’s tended

And he

And everyone

Must deal with that

x

We’ve been out there

When and where shall we go now?

x

I’ve rattled all this off

Because

I don’t know how to be ready

For what’s next

I wish I had resources

Of all kinds

x

Family things

Obviously

Certainly (to push on

the conceit) I don’t mind

If you know

x

If you pray,

Maybe you’ll pray

I believe the power in that

God bless him

And help us all

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C L Couch

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Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash

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Prevarication

(x = space)

x

x

Prevarication

x

How do I write about my brother

Again

And be ready one more time?

The doctor gave him time

Then that was it,

The doctor said

. . .

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C L Couch

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Photo by jules a. on Unsplash

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poems about early life

(x = space)

x

x

poems about early life

x

x

around the green S chair

(Rick and me)

x

there was an S chair

green, upholstered

with that kind of hard,

bumpy brocade that was

uncomfortable

kept in the basement

and there were other things

as basements tend to have

and around the chair

and through the other things

there was an oval

made that we would run,

my older brother and I,

while the Three Stooges

ran on television

and we ran in opposite directions

to each other, and when

we passed each other

we would whoop in high-pitched

voices like the

Stooges whom we thought

must be having fun

in black and white

as we were

around the green S chair

and everything else

pushed to one or the other

in the basement

x

x

a child’s Sunday night

x

everything was difficult

except sometimes on Sunday night

when we were downstairs

after baths or showers

pajamaed, robed

slippers over wrinkly toes

the TV set warmed up

Disney about to start

x

x

the younger ones on Friday night

x

on Friday nights

we often would

gather ‘round the kitchen table

with popcorn

and malted, chocolate candy

playing The Game of Life

sometimes Careers

we were taught Rook

the Southern person’s bridge

x

we played many games

and were okay

as long as my dad was winning

x

x

I never sang for my father

x

my dad took it on himself

to ridicule me

so that he might look bigger

somehow

whatever is in the mind

of the bully

I don’t know if that worked

inside

for him

while inside of me

as you might expect

there was resentment

and it grew

I had to win

and when I did,

I no longer cared

there was next to nothing there

and in the nothing

no relationships

x

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C L Couch

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I Never Sang for My Father is the name of a play and a film.

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Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash

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