Temple at High Camp

AMERICAN SONGBOOK

He hears the music

Father’s voice in his brother's

He doesn’t hear words

Jim Bodeen

27 February 2015

YOUR BODY FATHER, BEFORE ME AGAIN

To see your body, Dad,

after all these years

I was a boy

under 10

we were still in North Dakota

and here it is again

in the body of my brother

helping him

in and out of the shower

drying his feet

himself a man in his 60s

you in your 30s

when last I saw you

naked in the kitchen

where we took

our Saturday baths

You carried

the galvanized tub

in from the basement

Mom would heat water

Your wild nakedness

a sinewy mystery

what I see again

in your son

my brother

This is a Bible story

Genesis and birthright

a dream testament

visit and visitation

Jim Bodeen

24 February—27 February 2015

AS FOR ME IN ACCOMPANIMENT

walking with my brother

the privilege of it,

driving the car, following directions,

going where he asks me to go,

I, too, am in time and out of it,

listening to words more than speaking them

Becoming not becoming

what I hear

No there’s not much of myself

here, here fully present,

and whether

I’m lost or found

doesn’t much matter

Jim Bodeen

24 February 2015

WASHING YOUR SON’S FEET, FATHER

After the loss, more loss,

and then, the knee gone, too.

Held by cement. And anything 

can happen, Dad. Both of us,

two brothers, with this chance.

Our daily breath. Breaths.

The younger brother

has your body, Father—

your muscles and hairiness.

It is you I am looking at

across sixty years

when my brother comes

from the shower on crutches

for me to dry his feet.

I have our mother’s body.

its pale fleshiness. We are

older than you were

when you died

after the mountain blew.

Your cries from our childhood

live in us both. Fastening

the brace to the leg

lets us breathe again.

There is no language

for my brother’s loss.

For your son(s) weeping,

and joyful recognition

of your cleansing presence, yes.

Jim Bodeen

24 February 2015

BLUEBERRY MILK, AFTER MORNING GRAPE-NUTS

WITH RAISONS, AND COFFEE FROM KENYA

Spooning the milk at breakfast table

watching finches feed out the window.

She said to me, Ash Wednesday,

my husband came in late, sat

between me and our daughter.

He took his finger to her forehead,

'Let me borrow some of your ashes.'

She was six. The year that car hit us.

Jim Bodeen

17 February—22 February 2015

STANDING WITH THE NOTEBOOK ON THE MOUNTAIN

TEMPLE AT HIGH CAMP

Grandkids with parents

Most days that’s ok

Mom, Dad, call the shots

Grandpa’s mountain has fresh snow

This day’s skis don’t wait

Jim Bodeen

21 Feb 2015