Two Birthday Poems

THE CONSEQUENCES HAVE ALL TURNED TO LOVE:

BIRTHDAY LETTER TO KAREN SCHOWALTER AT 50

You’re in Med School with that damn left hand

and it’s not the class on knot-tying and sutures

but the unruliness and independence

of the vision. The calling to be a physician,

that’s what you promised.

You didn’t mention the shaman dream

at the threshold. Standing in doorways.

You’ve chosen the grander, larger than life-size God

and now you have to live with love.

You’re one of the crossover people.

Mary Oliver surrounds you. Bring up Alan Storey.

Could we bring him here?

I had to go to South Africa to see if he was real.

Alan calls you out, and just like that you’re a doctor.

Open door, open womb. Hold out your hand to strangers,

Yours is the only hand I get to hold today.

Every hand will have a hand to hold.

Echoes of Alan. Step into silence,

your words now. Leaving the house

remember the physician.

You’re only going to have 12 minutes with each patient.

You’re surprised you have so much time.

We sat there and didn’t say a thing.

What is inside me is inside you.

Everything swings and I can love anyone in the room.

Your daughter picks up the phone

and calls Cape Town. Alan clicks on his computer

and walks into the library. Daughters all over the world

learn languages in sentences forever new.

The shaman’s work. Neither man nor woman.

The work that important.

What about those babies being born?

They’re waiting. Like God,

not coming to you, through you.

Above tree line, 50, like Alan says,

In love, by love, for love.

Happy Birthday, Karen

Jim

April 23, 2014

LINES FOR MY BROTHER,

COACHING ON HIS 63D BIRTHDAY

If you’re scoring this play,

these numbers, 6-3, it reads like a routine

infield out, shortstop to first base.

You’ve shown me, Chuck,

the sacred in routine, how it holds

and how it comes apart—and why

the game must be slowed sometimes,

to one pitch, one swing of a bat.

63. These two numbers

bounce between even and odd,

divisible always by the odd 3,

even into the sixth decade,

where pitching changes get made.

Karen and I bring pizza thinking

your girls play three games today.

I have the date wrong. It’s practice,

and you call your team to the fence

and talk to them about the two of us

throwing ground balls on the street.

Ground balls and passion. This

is a coaching moment for the coach,

my brother. It’s two days after Easter

and I’ve read every note your ball players

put into your Easter basket. If you’re scoring

this one, you have to have someone

like you for a brother, or be on your team

to know what it means to play for a coach

like you to see this moment isn’t about baseball.

Your brother in the stands,

Love, Jim
April 23, 2014