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Making Circles in Darkness

on the loss of my mother

Sometimes going through the motions
is enough; it’s almost like living.

Sometimes it’s too much effort
to cross the room for heat,
so I watch the snow fall through
the cracked window,
the layers building up
of snow and blankets
as warmth slips out
through the opening.

I’m drunk on my own grief,
and my hand makes lazy circles
in the air to amuse me.
Life doesn’t mean anything;
it never did.

Sometimes there exists in me
a tempest that cannot be contained.
I rebuild and shift things,
furiously dig through the snow
and in the soil,
looking for a place to deposit
the excess energy
and the memories.

Life clings, meaningless
and important.

One day I will forget to feel the pain,
I’ll laugh without stopping myself
and I’ll let the flowers bloom
without shutting myself away
where I cannot see them.

The lazy circles amuse me;
I’m an infant again,
motherless and cold.
Each day feels different,
experienced in ways
I always feared.

I wonder how I’ll remember joy
when it tries to come back in,
and I wonder if I’ll want it
after the years I’ve spent in darkness.

Life clings, heavy
and beautiful.

Notes

Written 7 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Making Circles in Darkness” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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The Ravens Became Crows

I stood two feet away, a witness to the moment
when Alaska started to fade away,
revealing the familiar loneliness of Iowa.
I stood close enough to touch her,
unable to find my arms, unable to find words.
I looked at the harsh black words,
old marker on a scrap of paper, trash.
MY DAD IS DYING
I stood, paralyzed, my body slipping further away,
unable to clear the tears from her eyes,
unable to pull time back and change these events.
She looked at me, and in her eyes I could see
her snow melting, revealing fields of corn.
I could see her ravens becoming crows,
and we shared a silent moment,
knew everything would change.
I stood still for what must have been days,
and when I finally moved my feet, Lisa was gone.

Notes

Written 7 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “The Ravens Became Crows” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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The Rain

I’m still waiting outside for rain,
hoping for sudden downpours from cloudless skies.
I’m wondering if she’ll join me when the first drops
start to fall and the birds fall silent.
She’s been delayed, I’ve told myself again,
or the rain hasn’t been enough.
It has never been enough
I’ve summoned more and more rain,
for over a year I’ve coaxed it from the air,
the ground sometimes swelling, saturated and marshy.

Brush Creek has filled to overflowing,
washing out parts of the road and clearing out
the debris of our distractions.
It has not been enough.
The Cimarron & Arkansas Rivers have been flooded,
swallowing homes and memories,
lives lost and inconvenienced.
Still she has not arrived.
I continue my incantations, calling for more clouds,
more rain — great hurricanes that try to find me,
creeping along the coasts, tied to the oceans.
Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, The Bahamas, Puerto Rico,
they may all need to be sacrificed in my efforts,
and it will be worth the loss because I will
no longer feel like I am alone.
I am listening for those first signs, the drips on the tin roof
and I am ready to throw open the windows,
clench my fists, and try to push my dreams into reality.
I know she will join me if I keep trying,
and we will sit together on the covered porch,
resuming what should still be.

Notes

Written 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “The Rain” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

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Cercis canadensis

for Dad

When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before. I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.

Notes

Written 19 April 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma. Rewritten 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Cercis canadensis” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

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Luctus Herbarium

I’m counting the blooms,
tagging and cataloguing each one,
memorializing the specimens in photos.
I’m waiting for patterns,
counting petals and leaves to make sense of the passing months.
Routines form in my distractions, order.
This must be a sign.
On hot days like this, I sit in the heat,
water hose set to mist.
I watch the tiny drops of water float by,
dancing in the shifting breeze
while I clutch the trigger tightly.
I switch the settings,
long streams shoot into the sky,
pattering like hard rain on the metal roof of the porch.
I pulse the trigger,
tight, loose, tight, loose.
I’m wet from the water dripping down my arm,
and by the drifts of mist.
The hot sun dries my clothes,
nozzle retired to the floor of the porch.
Thoreau wanted to live simply and deliberately,
to test himself against nature,
to love it, to record it, tame it or be tamed by it.
I just want to get through the day,
to bury my head in my collection of information.
I can’t index my life in values and harvests;
my gardens are not for sale,
nor are they planted with very useful.
Maybe they should be.
Maybe they should be.
Maybe…
Soon I’m returning to my work,
counting the dead blooms as I prune
and noting which ones wilted first.
So many flowers remain beautiful without petals;
that seems important enough to note, so I do.
I’m still slightly damp,
enough to forget about Mom’s absence,
but she is even more present
in the sorted flora, the journals of growth,
in the fountains of sun-warmed water.

26 August 2018

Written 26 August 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Luctus Herbarium” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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It’s been another week when I’ve felt like I am moving slowly and the rest of the world is rushing around me.  I find myself increasingly thinking to myself that I want to show Mom a video or picture or craft project.  It’s frustrating.

I planted 3 crapemyrtles.  I’m really working toward my gardening plan that I’ve been working on since last year.  Tomorrow is two weeks since I planted all the roses out here.  9 of 11 have growth on them already and the two that don’t look alive still, one more than the other.  I did also plant 6 rosa rugosas, but those don’t have growth on them.  I’m keeping my fingers crossed and not putting too much pressure on it all.  I also found some Virginia Creeper growing up the back of the house, which is great.  I want it there so I hope it makes it.  Oh, the lawn mower finally was returned after being repaired.  So, I mowed.  It had been so long that the lawn is having a hard time recovering, but it will in time.  Hopefully we can get some rain soon.  That will help.

I’ve been much more interested in being alone this week.  I think everyone has really.  That said, things seem less… desperate?  I don’t know how to articulate, but I know there are many people who instantly know what I’m talking about.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

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This has been a trying week.  I’ve really felt like I’ve been stuck in slow motion while everything speeds by around me.  I’m tired; I’ve spent the majority of time in bed this week.  I’m not ready for real life, but it keeps popping up because it doesn’t seem to care if I’m ready or not.  Mom wanted me to be successful.  I think she believed I could be even more than I did, so when I have been awake this week I’ve been charging ahead with my blog and social media.  I have a lot of plans for the blog, for my work, and for my home.  I don’t want to stop planning my life, even if I do find everything rather pointless right now.

I hope this upcoming week is a little better.  I have some projects that should prove therapeutic, and should I get to them I will discuss it in next week’s review.  I’m trying to not put too much pressure on myself, so I easily could have another week of sleeping.  This is hard.  It’s actually much harder than I expected, and I expected it to be rough.  I need time.  I need a lot of time, and I hope I don’t bore anyone by taking my time.Continue Reading