No Gathering In of this Incense. Mark Rhoads

join his right

      at the end of the handle,

      arms extended, the blade

      gaining speed,

      driving through the wood,

      throwing the sundered pieces

      into piles on either side,

      the blade sticking

      in the chopping block;

      his mind working

      out the details

      of some plan

      to repair the old Ford truck

      or build a roost

      for the chickens;

      each fracture

      underscoring some figure,

      crossing out another,

      throwing a circle around

      a great idea.

      I worked quietly

      alongside him, loaded up

      arms full of pine slabs,

      took them into the shed

      and stacked them

      floor to ceiling,

      ten rows deep.

      My Mother Burned My Father’s Letters From the War

      the smoke rising

      from the burn barrel

      smoke

      mixed with the smoke

      of butter wrappers

      and banana peels

      the censored words

      interstitial meanings

      calcined

      so that no priestly gathering in

      of this incense

      will bring them back

      for this smoke

      ascends to the gods

      who know every word

      but will not tell me

      Where I Was When I Heard about the Sinking of the Andrea Doria

      On July 25, 1956, the Italian liner Andrea Doria,

      one of the last luxury ocean liners, collided

      with the SS Stockholm off Cape Cod and sank

      within twelve hours. 46 died. 1660 were rescued.

      My mother told me as we were crossing

      the Stratford Rd. bridge coming into town.

      I was sitting in the big back seat of the old Chevy

      running my fingers over the mohair nap;

      the window was down, the bridge smelled

      of creosote, the lake looked deep and still;

      then my mother put out her arm to signal

      and we turned right into Broadway.

      Deadeye

      To my mother the teacher.

      The cool rotating of her head

      the meeting of the eyes

      that pause

      the silence

      a silence where

      you can hear your heart

      beating inside your head

      and you think it makes

      the whole room pulsate

      and the other children

      turning toward you

      horror on their faces

      grateful it wasn’t them

      Short Block

      When Dad brought the car home from the shop,

      some men from the neighborhood came by

      to stand around the open beak-like hood,

      gesticulating, leaning in by turns

      to admire the thing. I stood there too

      on tiptoe in this colloquium of experts,

      lying over the great white fender,

      looking down, scanning that yawning space.

      Another 50,000 Dad said.

      Easy said Mr. Mentti.

      Easy I repeated.

      ‘59 Cadillac

      I was standing on the curb across from Sigman’s

      where my mother had sent me to buy vinegar

      when I saw my first ‘59 Cadillac.

      It was coming toward me down 3rd Avenue,