Thank you , this is powerful This week 5 years ago my husband of 22 years was in hospital and in a few days would emerge as a Covid ghost , and he and all the other ghosts would just disappear from all memory except for those who live with them. ✨
The penultimate time I saw my younger brother he held his head too high like he was smelling something nasty and he acted annoyed, as if he needed to tend to things. Very busy, elsewhere. I had owed him a thousand dollars for too many years
His mood was his hair.
Bouffant is the wrong word. But what is it, that style? Think. Disinter. The Dirty-Dancing guy? Bouffant is surely the wrong word. It’s not a Jackie O. Nor Circumcised Mohawk. Nor Modified Mullet. Probably a strain of Tom Cruise. The Coif Mot Juste?
~
‘So maybe I made a bad decision, your Honor, but it was his fault.’
“So you grabbed him … Here: ‘and held him close with my left arm and I held behind his head with my right forearm, over the sink, and tore off his gay eye patch and blew some bloody snot into that left eye slit and when the cops came, sure, I was hitting him with his brush.’ ”
‘All that for a missed communication? You were looking in the same mirror.’
‘Yeah, but I couldn’t really see what he was doing. He asked me if I wanted a Sting.’
‘Nonetheless you still owe him.’
‘Are you kidding? Look at this wig!’
‘Thievery in the Second Scoville. Hate in the … let’s give him a 9.5. Take him away.’
‘WHAT?!’
‘Out foul jelly. Where is thy luster now?’
~
Our mother’s burial was to the day eight months after he got out. December 15. We met at Oakwood Cemetery. Yes, the branches were bare and the clouds were low and grey. But her spot was under the stout limbs of an old magnolia. My brother had on jack boots, fisherman’s overalls, a waxed low-rider duster, a toboggan, all black. We saw each other, but we did not yet speak, and we stood on opposite sides of the hole.
The Minister said a few holy things and then played the recording she had requested. It was her voice:
I loved them when they were young, I guess. What happened was not my fault. Why won’t you forgive me? You broke my heart. And rude and drinkin and LalaaaAzzzy … lord! You are just like your Daddy.
At the moment her rebuff clicked off, a body fell out of the tree and landed head first in the hole, legs sticking out. Aunt Mae screamed. Uncle Joe swallowed his snuff. My brother said quietly, “Son-of-a-bitch.” A few of the few mourners, the brave, the practical, looked up. The rest were afraid to. I could make out another human form at the base of a big limb.
They were doing what young we had done. Climb. Sit. Meditate. But our arrival had caught them up there. They were young and they could not not move for long.
‘Climb down outta there.’
Uncle Joe pulled the other out of the hole and harked some brown juice into it.
‘What’s your names? Where y’all live. Your parents?’
They were new in town. From up North.
‘Get home.’
My brother, his head was shaved except for an oval patch centered on his crown. And his hair, streaked with green and gray, hung in a tight braid that stopped near his waist, clenched with a sealer and anchored with an Irish device. Like an old-movie coolie queue. I didn’t know what it meant.
‘How goes it?’, he asked as he shucked his surtout and pushed up his sleeves.
‘I don’t do tats. I’m too vain.’
We walked to the frog-green Jag sedan he had come in. I took my memorial card and wrote
Bro, I will stay my envy, you will see. Me of you and you of me,
Your brother, with The Rabbit, como El Conejo, como El Jugador Inhabile.
With my address and slid it into his inscrutable hair.
Many years ago I adopted, as a mantra, the Bob Dylan song line, “He who isn’t busy being born, is busy dying”. Now, at 79 years young, I do new stuff all the time: diy, gardening, writing poetry, wood carving, contributing on Substack, visiting the village pub, reading some of the books that I’ve been thinking about for years, exercising (use it or lose it). When I get too tired or perhaps unwell to fill my days, I’ll be ready to pass on, but that feels like decades away!
I just went back and read Testament. It's a relief to read how you write about death. Not fearful, not even somber. But beautifully.
I sing to people on the threshold of death, and after 15 years of doing it, I am also not afraid. I wish more 'westerners' would make friends with death and see what an amazing effect it has on our living.
I love the rondel form - it's new to me. Thank you,
Jesus did say let the dead bury the dead. Probably the hardest funeral for me was that of my husband and going graveside of course not staying as the cremains joined his brother.
My husband will be eulogizing his recently deceased brother later in April. He intends to print this wise poem as reference and possible quotation. Thank you, Sherman Alexie. PS used to live in Bellingham WA, you will receive a great welcome there at your upcoming event.
New to Substack and glad to see fellow eastern WA to Madrona writer. Left the hood for sunshine in CO. Your poem reminds me of your last book and your mom. I love this and thank you by sharing the following from a crazy mind thinking she can write poetry. Here goes.
My Nana never wanted a funeral. She said, “If they didn’t come see me when I was alive, I don’t want them seeing me when I’m dead.” She was quietly cremated, and only immediate family celebrated her life.
Oh dear. I’m reading this just after the funeral of a dear friend who died in her sleep at 48. You have no idea how much your words resonate with me right now. I’m bawling. Thank you for the cry.
From experience I prefer a good funeral to most weddings. I've only enjoyed one friend's wedding for the same reason I've "enjoyed" the good funerals. They were very DIY and all about everyone pitching in and coming together and enjoying themselves without pretension. Celebrate death, celebrate life, celebrate absolutely nothing, grieve death, grieve loss of life, grieve absolutely nothing, then rest.
Thank you , this is powerful This week 5 years ago my husband of 22 years was in hospital and in a few days would emerge as a Covid ghost , and he and all the other ghosts would just disappear from all memory except for those who live with them. ✨
X
80’s Bouffant
The penultimate time I saw my younger brother he held his head too high like he was smelling something nasty and he acted annoyed, as if he needed to tend to things. Very busy, elsewhere. I had owed him a thousand dollars for too many years
His mood was his hair.
Bouffant is the wrong word. But what is it, that style? Think. Disinter. The Dirty-Dancing guy? Bouffant is surely the wrong word. It’s not a Jackie O. Nor Circumcised Mohawk. Nor Modified Mullet. Probably a strain of Tom Cruise. The Coif Mot Juste?
~
‘So maybe I made a bad decision, your Honor, but it was his fault.’
“So you grabbed him … Here: ‘and held him close with my left arm and I held behind his head with my right forearm, over the sink, and tore off his gay eye patch and blew some bloody snot into that left eye slit and when the cops came, sure, I was hitting him with his brush.’ ”
‘All that for a missed communication? You were looking in the same mirror.’
‘Yeah, but I couldn’t really see what he was doing. He asked me if I wanted a Sting.’
‘Nonetheless you still owe him.’
‘Are you kidding? Look at this wig!’
‘Thievery in the Second Scoville. Hate in the … let’s give him a 9.5. Take him away.’
‘WHAT?!’
‘Out foul jelly. Where is thy luster now?’
~
Our mother’s burial was to the day eight months after he got out. December 15. We met at Oakwood Cemetery. Yes, the branches were bare and the clouds were low and grey. But her spot was under the stout limbs of an old magnolia. My brother had on jack boots, fisherman’s overalls, a waxed low-rider duster, a toboggan, all black. We saw each other, but we did not yet speak, and we stood on opposite sides of the hole.
The Minister said a few holy things and then played the recording she had requested. It was her voice:
I loved them when they were young, I guess. What happened was not my fault. Why won’t you forgive me? You broke my heart. And rude and drinkin and LalaaaAzzzy … lord! You are just like your Daddy.
At the moment her rebuff clicked off, a body fell out of the tree and landed head first in the hole, legs sticking out. Aunt Mae screamed. Uncle Joe swallowed his snuff. My brother said quietly, “Son-of-a-bitch.” A few of the few mourners, the brave, the practical, looked up. The rest were afraid to. I could make out another human form at the base of a big limb.
They were doing what young we had done. Climb. Sit. Meditate. But our arrival had caught them up there. They were young and they could not not move for long.
‘Climb down outta there.’
Uncle Joe pulled the other out of the hole and harked some brown juice into it.
‘What’s your names? Where y’all live. Your parents?’
They were new in town. From up North.
‘Get home.’
My brother, his head was shaved except for an oval patch centered on his crown. And his hair, streaked with green and gray, hung in a tight braid that stopped near his waist, clenched with a sealer and anchored with an Irish device. Like an old-movie coolie queue. I didn’t know what it meant.
‘How goes it?’, he asked as he shucked his surtout and pushed up his sleeves.
‘I don’t do tats. I’m too vain.’
We walked to the frog-green Jag sedan he had come in. I took my memorial card and wrote
Bro, I will stay my envy, you will see. Me of you and you of me,
Your brother, with The Rabbit, como El Conejo, como El Jugador Inhabile.
With my address and slid it into his inscrutable hair.
Similarly, the Jewish Kaddish prayer said in memorium is really an ode to the living. Do you know Marge Piercy’s wonderful translation?
Excellent
Many years ago I adopted, as a mantra, the Bob Dylan song line, “He who isn’t busy being born, is busy dying”. Now, at 79 years young, I do new stuff all the time: diy, gardening, writing poetry, wood carving, contributing on Substack, visiting the village pub, reading some of the books that I’ve been thinking about for years, exercising (use it or lose it). When I get too tired or perhaps unwell to fill my days, I’ll be ready to pass on, but that feels like decades away!
A poem meant to be read aloud.
I just went back and read Testament. It's a relief to read how you write about death. Not fearful, not even somber. But beautifully.
I sing to people on the threshold of death, and after 15 years of doing it, I am also not afraid. I wish more 'westerners' would make friends with death and see what an amazing effect it has on our living.
I love the rondel form - it's new to me. Thank you,
What a lovely idea. Music to fade away to!
Jesus did say let the dead bury the dead. Probably the hardest funeral for me was that of my husband and going graveside of course not staying as the cremains joined his brother.
Good stuff man, love your work. This reminds me a bit of Felix Dennis.
My husband will be eulogizing his recently deceased brother later in April. He intends to print this wise poem as reference and possible quotation. Thank you, Sherman Alexie. PS used to live in Bellingham WA, you will receive a great welcome there at your upcoming event.
New to Substack and glad to see fellow eastern WA to Madrona writer. Left the hood for sunshine in CO. Your poem reminds me of your last book and your mom. I love this and thank you by sharing the following from a crazy mind thinking she can write poetry. Here goes.
https://substack.com/@lisablume/note/p-159019867?r=jzve5&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action
My Nana never wanted a funeral. She said, “If they didn’t come see me when I was alive, I don’t want them seeing me when I’m dead.” She was quietly cremated, and only immediate family celebrated her life.
Love it.
Oh dear. I’m reading this just after the funeral of a dear friend who died in her sleep at 48. You have no idea how much your words resonate with me right now. I’m bawling. Thank you for the cry.
From experience I prefer a good funeral to most weddings. I've only enjoyed one friend's wedding for the same reason I've "enjoyed" the good funerals. They were very DIY and all about everyone pitching in and coming together and enjoying themselves without pretension. Celebrate death, celebrate life, celebrate absolutely nothing, grieve death, grieve loss of life, grieve absolutely nothing, then rest.