John L. Stanizzi -12 collections, including Sleepwalking, Four Bits, Pond, and Sundowning. John’s been in Prairie Schooner, American Life In Poetry, Poetlore, and many others. Translations appear in Italy. Nonfiction – Stone Coast Review, Ovunque Siamo, Praxis, and many others. Received Artist Fellowship in 2021 in CT.
Lungs
Jennifer M. Caron of Colchester, Connecticut, 37, passed away
on May 24, 2022. Jenni battled cystic fibrosis her entire life.
She received a double-lung transplant fifteen years ago
(her doctor had given her five years, at most)
and her gratitude for that selfless, anonymous act
was immeasurable. It gave her, and us, an additional 15 years.
May 17, 1985—May 24, 2022.
This evening
anyone who is able
anyone not fully broken
should remark on
the beauty of dusk
while others should bow their heads
and weep for you
I see you romping
through the opulent forest
etched with more
slender lines than could ever be
cast by the finest pen
I’m sure I hear your delicate laughter
and I overflow with the knowledge
that I will never again find you
–
Remember those years in the theater-
our drug?
I can still see you backstage
in the quarter light
You’re lying under blankets
on an old mattress that had been
meant to be a prop
We had sheets -pillows
-bedspread – blankets
-bedspread – blankets
a real bed
made from donations
by supporters of the Theater Program
–
The cast of Seussical
more than one-hundred strong
was on the other side of the curtain
punching out the lyrics
to Biggest Blame Fool
lead by Sour Kangaroo
They got so loud
their singing went up and over
the 50-piece orchestra
but above all this hullabaloo
the only thing I could hear clearly
was the clattering of your lungs
the rasp of your breathing
–
I lifted you like a newborn
avoiding what I could barely see
in the back-stage dark that we were all addicted to
-a piano
-instrument cases all over the floor
-the tech crew all dressed in black
standing here and there
perfectly still
backs against the wall
listening for their cue
-we locked eyes
which were all
glistening with tears
On the other side of the curtain
the cast was fully alive
buried in the applause of hundreds
as the band surged louder
–
You’re shuddering with coughing
deep within your little bird chest
which had crashed
We negotiate the set shop
heaped with the remnants
of past shows
and we slip out
the side door
It has begun to snow
I hold you more closely
in this dark weighty space
darker than backstage
–
The parking lot lights
reveal windblown snow
tearing sideways
full of itself
But I will find my car
and bring you home
You look up at me and tremble-
unsettled your tears come
as the snow picks up
beginning to accumulate
–
I keep a toxic thought
to myself
I hold you, my precious, precious Jenni
and wonder
Where will we ever find lungs
at this time of night
and in this weather?
The Middle
-The inner lotus has never seen a drop
of mud or dirty water; it is pure,
bright, beautiful.
-Bird’s Tail Magazine
When I buried you, I hated you-
Now I feel shame
and something
resembling tenderness.
I pretended to give you everything I could-
quilt of patience, cool wind for the sadness…
I fabricated a life of gifts.
It was mandatory.
Many of you will understand this.
I gave you a blue sky with weakening clouds,
the pinkness of birth,
sand, lots of it,
and a breeze
to sweep that sand over the moonrise.
But then came the day
when you told me you heard a rumor
that your most dear possessions
had been lugged over the rise
near the Chinese restaurant.
The person who told you
swore it was you.
My heart was shattered.
Someone else said you were smiling-
No! They said you were cackling.
Cackling!
as you raced over the winding roads
leaving this scrapyard of a town
in a feverish search for the beginning.
Well then, let’s dress the worms
in little tuxedos
and release them
as a reminder
of the difference
between the beginning of things
marked by innocence and abuse,
followed by the middle,
the thoughtless,
senselessly hysterical
and selfish middle,
followed by the
extraordinary amicability
gifted sincerely
by the wraith of the moribund,
beaming heinously
as they invited you in forever.