compendium of universal human situations

michael j. grabell

Drifting

And doesn’t raw chicken breast always look like South America—or Africa, depending what side you slice from? When I was little, I thought I saw my dead father smoking a pipe in the wood-grain paneling
of our living room, his black eyes
unremorseful, forgiving.

Should I have thought it a sign—
an old man trying to connect with me?

Is it much different than sensing
despair in the avocados as “Feliz
Navidad” played in the produce section
or finding hope in the outline of a woman’s
dress?

I don’t see what I want to see.
I see what I have to see—faith
in a salt stain under a bridge. I laugh
at wakes because there is nothing
to crying. I began to see myself
in third person, the hardened pride of
putting out of mind my compulsion
to see you in an airport, hear you say

let me buy you a drink, son.

Tomorrow I will visit your grave
for the first time in nine years, the place
where at five, I traced the letters of your name.
I have tried so hard to imagine the concrete
again after seeing the abstract beneath.

The chicken breast is tasty.

Avocados are avocados. I say there is no hope
in a woman’s dress, but believe me,
it is there.

—

thanks to jus. f. r.

donald hall

White Apples

when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes

jeffrey skinner

The Experiment

I sewed my father into a specially designed, handmade bear suit. He was indistinguishable from a real bear, and yet retained the necessary functions of a human. I also provided a GPS radio collar. Then I air-dropped him into a densely forested preserve. When I returned a year later I found he had mated with an Asian black bear. He and she and their two cubs lived a quiet life in a mountain cave.

After sharing a meal of berries and honey and wild piglets I asked to speak to my father in private. He led me on a path away from the cave to the edge of a cliff. This view of surrounding mountains and rivers and forest is magnificent … “Yes, it is,” he said. “What, you can read minds now?” I said. “A small trick for a bear, as it turns out.”

I thought this over for a moment; but it did not change my purpose. “Dad,” I said, “it’s time to go home. The experiment is over.” He stared at me with his great, incongruous blue eyes and bear face, and said, “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” “NO!” he said finally and swatted a nearby douglas fir with one paw. The tree flew several yards over my head and came to rest in the snow, dirt trickling from its upended roots.

“It’s been good to see you,” I said, and rose. “Same here,” he said and also stood, “but I think it best if you didn’t come back.” I agreed, and held wide my arms for a goodbye embrace. I could hear and feel the cracking of my ribs, which I consoled myself would heal completely in time. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said. “In fact, tell her I’ve died.” “Well, you are dead, aren’t you?” “Yes,” he said, and scampered up the path with surprising agility, on all fours.

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