And Goodbye —

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And here, I learned

how to say goodbye.

 

With abandoned old-man-winter calves

we tried to save in the once-was-a-stripping room

in the old black barn at 5 and 8 and 11 and 2

(and 5 and 8 and 11 and 2)

with warm bottles of still-remember-that-smell

that made my hands thick with sticky.

And then, we lost them anyway.

(But not all! No, not all.)

 

And goodbye —

 

With the Great Palomino

who carried me first on that green

with his rounded quarters

my personal streets-of-gold-on-earth.

Trust him and lean back

learn not to start when he stamps at the fly

learn gelding, mare, stallion, parts – all parts.

He who laid down in the field

with the kind syringe that

took away his pain.

Don’t watch, don’t watch.

 

And goodbye —

 

With ink and crayon on paper

tied with string that floated under balloons.

“Send her messages,” Em said.

And the logical place was heaven

because Grandmother’s arms had

forever folded before they put her in the ground

and Jesus had her now.

 

And goodbye —

 

With a swab on his tongue and

the drop in his can’t-blink-any-more eyes

and the push of morphine

when he moaned

and reading-through-tears

Kipling’s Gunga Din and

God’s TRUTH from The Psalms and Isaiah

and remembering I bathed his body last

while the warmth was still tucked inside.

 

And goodbye —

 

With one last trek to Green Creek

where the crawdaddies flitted

backwards, under rocks and leaves

and where the minnows swam among

the tiny shells of never-could-name-them creatures.

And the memory: buck naked bodies

sending rainbows into the sun to dance

with our laughter-of-a-child in the sun.

And we walked

where the sky was huge and
never-before-oppressive-now-oppressive

and there wasn’t enough air

for the Oh-God-I’m-Flying-Apart

re-grieving of all former goodbyes.

 

And when we drove out,

I never looked back.

213 thoughts on “And Goodbye —”

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