by C. S. Nelson

Odd thing,
holding your father’s speckled grey remains
in the pink palm of your hand,

a pile of powder from a plastic bag
delivered to you in a varnished box
half the size of a loaf of bread.

He wanted his ashes scattered
over his mother’s grave.
The woman of whom he never spoke.

Of whom I never saw a photo
until they moved into assisted living
and a formal portrait, so young,

found its way onto the mantel.
I didn’t even know where her grave was.
Cousin Paul knew. St. Louis Cemetery #2,

the Robelot crypt. The tomb was splendid,
one of their mini–mansions of memory.
Four ornate pillars offset the comers

with just enough doo–dads to be grand
yet refined. Front stones engraved with
the given names, the dearly interred.

Nowhere, however, can we find Aimée,
his mother, who died when he was four.
Her name. Her death. That’s all we knew.

We never wondered how she died
or why he never spoke of her. We learned
early on not to knock on doors he locked.

Time comes to punch our nerves,
to the hand–cuffed letting go
of ashes and tears,

to tossing what’s left over the top
of the six–foot high, white–washed vault
only to watch the wind play rude.

by C. S. Nelson

Sad, old monster —
cigarette–poisoned skin,
paper thin on your hanging face,
hollowed cheeks fallen down
to flabby jowls, to two flat tires
that straddled the mouth
that once upon a time
flashed a Hollywood smile.

And those hazel eyes
that used to sparkle,
left to sparking in the end,
to spitting poison, to leaking tears —
a portrait, come familiar,
from a haunted house.

Last October, a year after your death,
a woman at my high school reunion
took my face in her hands and said,
“So handsome. Just like your father,”
and then kissed me goodbye.

by Sue Ellen Thompson

Swathed in the fragrant, gauzy shawl
of a Hawaiian night, we stand
on the tarmac with a dozen others,
waiting for the flight from Honolulu
to arrive. My parents and our five–year–old
are on their way to meet us in Kauai

as we make on our way home
from Yokohama. The inter–island flight
takes barely 40 minutes — it should be here
by now. But the sky is a solid,
distanceless expanse of darkness
without stars. Thirty minutes

pass, then forty–five. Conversation
begins its slide into anxious silence.
A slick, slow–motion tide of dread
is inching up my spine. My husband’s eyes
are wired to the blackness of the sky.
He was an orphan by the time

we married, our only child our only
try at filling that strange void.
Without parents, without children,
will our marriage survive? Tragedy
befalls the young and undeserving
all the time and I could be

among them, my life no longer
charmed. Then, in the farthest reaches
of the sky, a star appears, its light
equivocal at first, then brighter
and unwavering. Then the night
air gathers in a vast, collective sigh.

by Sue Ellen Thompson

had no Tonto
or Dale

his only companion
a nameless horse

but held my younger
brothers enthralled

nightlight glowing
like an ember.

Across the hall
homework done

I’d hear my father’s
bedtime voice

a little gravelly
from smoking

& knew this meant
that Cowboy Joe

was heading out
to rescue a calf

trapped in a gulch
or a rancher’s wife

pinning shirts on the line
when a cloud

of Indians descended.
Too old to climb

in bed with them
I’d turn my gooseneck

desk lamp off
& wait for him

to saddle his horse
reins slack at first

then gathered up short
as he galloped away

from the life
he had known

as a small town
businessman, father

to five &
a beagle named Jenny.