Refracted Neurons

Admittedly, I have not had the best of luck lately. So I was more than a little surprised when I opened the cover of a book I had picked up at Goodwill and found signatures. At first, I thought it was the usual, “To So-and-so, thanks for all the good times on the lake,” or just a string of nonsense letters and numbers. That’s what’s usually in second-hand books. It’s pretty rare for people to write their own name in the flyleaf, which I always do if I plan to loan it out. Anyway, it took me a minute to realize that the book was signed, not by the author, but by the relatives of the woman in the book. Luck glanced at me from the corner of his eye and grinned. I’ve read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks before, a friend loaned it to me. Since then, I always knew I’d pick up a copy if I ran into one. I’m crazy about non-fiction, especially medical non-fiction. One of the things I always wondered about was how Henrietta’s family felt about the book after it was published. The

“Ooooooh Veeeera, why are you still here?” Tracy walked by Vera’s cube, a white coffee mug in one hand. “I’m working on the report that you need on Monday,” Vera spun in her chair to face him, “You know, the one you didn’t ask for until it was 3:30 PM on the night before Thanksgiving.” Tracy lifted his mug as if he were about to toast her, “You can do it on Monday, as long as it’s on my desk by eight.” “I’m not coming in at six in the morning on a post-holiday Monday.  I’ll just get it done tonight,” Vera turned her back towards Tracy.  There was no point in arguing with him, he always won.  She continued working, setting up different fields and writing queries.  She was so immersed in her work, that a sudden movement off to her left startled her.  Caught off guard, Vera jerked, her hand connecting with a coffee mug. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the flash of Tracy’s blonde curls, the tidal wave of coffee cresting the lip of the mug, and Tracy’s shriek, as shri

I am ill-starred, legs above the water, breath still held.  For me would you stand bareheaded, scattering wildflowers on the shore, or am I just driftwood in a sea of fragments of what was or could have been. My breath is still held for you, my bearings, my ballast, my scattered wildflowers on the shore, the star that I can point down to, the dial that seems to spin in its case, pointing always in the same direction, my bearings, my ballast, the sky I never grabbed two-handed, you, the star that I can point up to, the arch of waves that defines me, the bubbles, I can no longer hold, bursting with what could have been. The sky you grabbed, two-handed, standing unbevereaved, bareheaded, the arch of waves defining     you are ill-starred, legs above the deep. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo I just finished reading Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania . This poem is rather heavily inspired by the end