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
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