LetterPoem to a Man With His Hands at his Sides

Eons ago, when I was still teaching writing at Wichita State University, I used to give readings (no, not tarot--poetry and short stories) and writing workshops around Kansas. These were mostly at other schools and women's events, but once I travelled to a large brick building in western Kansas where my audience was seriously challenged. Seriously. As in some couldn't lift their chins off their chests or hold a pencil or propel their own wheelchairs. What to do, what to do. What I tried not to do was focus on the exceedingly limber man in the middle of the room who was chewing on his bare foot.

I settled on having them try to write acrostic poems--using each letter of their names. Those who could tried. Those who could read them aloud did. It was surreal, and I was desperate to fill my time slot on their activities calendar so I could get to my car and head back east.

A motorcycle accident--he was in his 30s--grasped that I was from Wichita and wanted me to know he was also. It seemed to please him. Then he stood to read his poem.

J ohn
O nly
H urts
N ow

In that sterile room of wounded bodies and brains, there was an audible, collective sigh. They got it. They were more present than I was at the time.

At the end of my dog-and-pony show, those residents who were able to line up were directed to pass by me with their thanks and goodbyes. The toe chewer dutifully shook my hand, smiled, and said, "Ya done good. Kep 'em busy. That's what they need."

Among my more conventional audiences, my poem below was the one for which I received the most requests for copies. Today's readers can make of that what they will.

In fact, I don't know who might be reading this, what your own stories are, what you're doing with your feet, where your man's hands are.  I'm always listening for a collective sigh.

LetterPoem to a Man with His Hands at His Sides

This early morning room glares like a naked bulb,
and when I close my eyes against the light, you
are almost here, like the lost words of your pauses
that always seem to tell another story, like the
wallpaper I've intended to hang for so long that
I am sometimes startled to see the stark sheetrock
and scarred ceilings where I had meant for smooth
patterns to appear. Even this new floor has been
gouged, the spot growing darker,  like a bruise
that will not heal, and I regret that I deal
so awkwardly with reversals and loose ends,
the unknowns left dangling, like your arms by
your sides the night I thought you were going
to gather my ill-defined fears against your chest
until I could lose them in the pattern of your shirt.
And while I know now that it matters only that you didn't--
the why of it lost in that last, long pause--I still go on
struggling against the absence of blueprints or anniversaries,
and write this letter, like my children scribbling their
messages across the blank walls, to color them with meaning.

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