Sanding the Hull (from Duende)

Sanding the Hull


When we were sanding the sailboat’s weathered hull,

layer upon layer of life and its subjects up for grab,

we talked of raising the sails on Silver Lake or Half Moon,

of strawberries lifting beneath shade plants in the yard,

and of slant-six engines, push-button controls, the Rambler.


Who knew that, in ten years’ time, he’d be dead, the brown spots

on his lungs inching wider, those years of smoking cigarillos

in bodegas, when the need to drink and dance prevailed.

I crocheted a gold blanket to stave off bony chills,

each stitch laced with twists of whispered prayers.


When he was gone, they cleared his office; his widow,

his secretary hunched over piles of letters he’d hidden, locked

in the bottom drawer, its key hung on the hook near the door—

letters filled with more conversation: the poems of Neruda,

an article or book review, a recipe, math, or jokes,


our wide-ranging minds never settled or calm. His words

stream through to me now, les bon mots, or sage advice,

a caution, hint or path to shun. Directions to the market,

how to build a pergola, praise for my latest poems, more praise.

There’s never a warning, just his voice in my ear, slight bell


on a wisp as I breeze along. In my laughter now, I hear him. I see

his wry grin, that nose, that graying beard. I hoist my glass to shadow

reminders, to green-gray waves that lap against the bow of memory.

Those eyes softly pierced as crows’ feet and fret lines creased the planes

of his cheeks. His face reminds me to throw back my head and howl.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: