Dago red, dark, thick
Flowers in a bleed
Just above Brochia's area.
He draws a half brain,
That looks like yin
Or yang,
Marks the area, says
" He has difficulty initiating
speech and right side movement...
Aphasia
And some intermittent
Apraxia,"
Intoning a litany
Of symptoms and synapses.
You can hear and understand
And swear.
Swearing is older,he says,
Deeper in the cortex,
More like
Howls of lupo,
The wolf.
That and "No."
You can say no.
In the half light, the curtain
Cutting us off from ten people
Struggling to keep another alive,
We wrestle, you and I,
Bone and muscle against bone and muscle,
Like the summer I worked rooftop terrazo
For Garazzini Brothers', burnt my
Body umber, built muscle,
Dared to challenge, and you,
You old bastard, locked your hand in mine,
And (I did make it slow)
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Pushed my brown, black knuckles
To table top.
"Aw for Christ sake,
Jesus Christ almighty, Goddammit."
I hold your leg now,
Leaning my whole weight in,
Taking advantage of position.
No sporting contest here,
Just force, to hold you in
Your death bed.
And still, you are my match.
I have no stomach for winning.
What's left between us,
Is this last loving.
I can't help wording.
"Dad, ...dad,
I'm only trying to help.
You've got to rest. They say
If you rest, you'll
Get most of it back,
You'll still be able to talk."
Your body still tensed
Against me you initiate
The word
"You, ...you...help me?
Bullshit.
You, ...you...you bed."
Words driven past
Your bleeding brain flower,
Words driven by will,
Past dying.
Truth.
No quiet dying here.
No numbing clots
Or words.
Swearing and no are still
Possible, necessary.
"I love you, dad.
Its me, Tom."
Falling back,
Seeing me,
"Aw...Jesus Christ."
I know.
You want to stand,
Argue with the unarguable,
Meet your son,
And death,
With word and muscle,
Strong,
Like pure Dago red,
First wine,
Uncut, sour,
Full on the tongue,
Tasting of tears.
Or blood.
I heard your no.
I felt your muscle.
You sang
Man song.
II. Aria fresca
Light bright as wind
Blows off Jackson Street
From the river onto your bed
Past mother, Joe, Dave.
I stand at your feet,
The doctors range your
Right side from head to toe,
Calling you to
Squeeze fingers,
Pedal against their hands.
You watch Ramirez and listen
As he talks of the waxing
And waning of neural paths,
Muscle control and pulses of
Air driven past taut
Flesh strings to music
Made by tongue and teeth
Dancing to shape
The word,
Of recovery and hope.
Through diagnosing,
"Tom..."
He incants and pauses,
His voice raised to address
Your failing ears,
"We want you to stay here
With us.
You're getting better.
We'll get you started
On therapy."
"No."
"You, don't want to
Stay with us?"
"No."
"Well, Tom,
What would you
Like to do?"
Your eyes, aged
Past gray green,
Blue as air,
Turn from him,
Lock on mine.
"Go home
With my sons."
Ramirez looks up.
"He's recovered
A lot of
Language."
Eyes locked,
Light blowing like wind
Across Owassso or Minnewawa
Up Jackson from the river,
Between us,
Diamonds of salt,
On lashes below
Blue and brown,
We remember John,
Your brother
Sitting on cancer
Melted bones
On the dock, choosing
Death and home
Over dream cures
And the Mayo clinic.
I know
You want
To meet death
By water
With your sons.
I remember the lakes,
Four generations of
Blowing light,
Of bullshit and laughter,
Of fathers and sons,
Of perch and sunfish,
Of crappies and bullheads,
Of walleyes and northerns,
White Bear, Ruth Lake, Como,
Rice Lake, Rush Lake, Birch,
Gull, the St. Louis River,
Round Lake, Big Sandy and
Minnewawa.
Rain, snow, sun
And air
Blowing light
To diamonds
Men to boys,
Boys to men,
Words to music,
Pine scented air
Flowing like
Light across water.
You sang
Man song.
III. Caso duro
Pink flesh wraps around
The catheter,
Invaded to empty
Conveniently
Vein food
Pricked into
Your hand
Tethered to bed rails.
The winding sheet
Screens from mother,
Sitting by your head,
This your member,
Source of my life.
She holds your
Free hand,
Twined with
Her rosary
Her eyes stroking your face
Her thumb your knuckles.
"Hail mary,
Full of grace,"
I wait.
She senses me,
finishes.
"Pray for us,
Now and at the hour
Of our death."
She turns toward me,
and your head
Swings with her
To me.
I call.
"Dad."
She has combed you,
Put on your glasses,
Inserted the hearing aid.
You smile, calling softly,
"Ohhhh."
Your love washing away
Our night struggle.
Bending past mother,
Pressing lips to your
Shaved cheek, I
Smile and speak.
"I love you, dad.
You look good."
You echo.
"Good."
"Are you feeling better?"
"Better."
"You know, dad,
The doctor said
That sometimes
When you've got
Two languages..."
Your eyes are on mine.
You see my man smile
Creasing the corners.
Your face is open,
Waiting.
"You can still speak
In the old language."
I don"t know much
Italian, Dad.
Only one thing
You taught me.
So I'll try that.
Vino puro,
Aria fresca,
Caso duro."
Then in the middle of
This your dying,
We find once more,
All that is between us.
Your blue veined,
Bed rail bound hand
Reaches
Toward your sex.
Through the numbing
Sheets, tubes, wires, drugs
Past the the red brain flower,
Into air blowing like light,
Toward pink flesh,
You laugh, I laugh.
We know life in this
Last loving dying.
You echo me, I you.
"Caso duro,
Caso duro,"
You sang
Man Song.
Coda
My beard grey enough
At last,
We are driving
Down Jackson
To the river
Through your life.
Turning onto Shepard Road
Into the flats,
You time travel.
"Aw, Tom, you
Should have seen it
On Saturday nights.
This is where the
Italians lived.
We came and there
Was dago red,
Open air booths,
Dark flashing girls."
You encanted
"Vino puro - Pure wine"
(A song of blood, no, and muscle
Against death)
"Aria Fresca - Fresh air"
(A song of light smelling of pine
Against death)
"Caso Duro - A hard prick"
(A song of laughing pink flesh
Against death)
You sang - Ti hai canti
Man song - Canto dei uomini.
© Tom Bacig, 1984