- What My Brother Says
He says I’m not myself, but in my eyes
and in my arms, he is. I hug him, feeling
that he’s lost weight, but brother-warmth defies
that deficit. Disease and “cure” both stealing
small pieces of him, he has had to quit
his role as family cook, and he can’t drive.
But he retains his reason and his wit,
so much so that it seems clear he’ll survive;
they say he won’t. He says his life’s been great,
though certainly too short. He still stands tall
and truthful: he unblinkingly looks straight
ahead, says what he sees, and leads us all.
He looks thin, but he always has been slim.
He says I’m okay, mostly. He’s still him.
- What Looms
It’s always there: a cloud—no, more than that,
a monstrous weight, insistent, ugly—no,
invisible, but foul. Its habitat
is everywhere; there’s no place he can go
to break away from its unfailing grip
and find a self not poisoned by his own
insidious insight, where he can strip
his days of its unnerving undertone.
His daughter’s funny story makes him chuckle,
he briefly cares about a football game,
but you can almost see his psyche buckle
again as deathless facts and fears reclaim
their sure dominion, making him aware
again of all that looms. It’s always there.
- Walking with My Brother and His Wife
They’re holding hands, as they so often do,
as we three walk a path in woods behind
their house, our sneakers swishing through
mid-fall’s crisp russet leaves. This path will wind
predictably through acres of old trees
and end at their backyard. Along the way,
we talk of plans, the weather, memories;
most of their plans are now in disarray,
like scattered leaves in autumn’s chill. They stroll
as easily as if they could predict
more than this path, own more than land, control
the odds that he’ll grow old. What fears afflict
them, they defer; they face the chill unbowed.
They’ll hold hands for as long as they’re allowed.
- Therapy
I write these sonnets as if that might ease
my mind; it doesn’t, and these lines can’t do
a thing for him. Like stopgap therapies
that promise him another month, a few
neat poems only shuffle deck chairs, shaping
elaborations on the theme that dulls
his days with brain fog. He won’t be escaping;
he knows he’s sinking. As my brother mulls
his measureless calamity, I count
out syllables, choose metaphors, debate
rhyme schemes, and watch the icy water mount
in seas that he cannot long navigate.
I write as if I’d find breath in a word,
as if safe passage might yet be secured.
- Progress
It’s not the kind of progress we would hope
for; it’s the damned disease that’s making strides.
My brother’s gaining only ways to cope
with each new deficit as it divides
him further from the life that he once led—
a life he’d thoughtfully constructed, made
of love, ideas, and work. Inside his head,
the enemy destroys the cells that weighed
the sense of printed words, and so he learns
to listen to the Post; when his synapses
don’t fire at numbers anymore, he turns
the checkbook over to his wife. The lapses
disturb but don’t defeat him; he finesses
each injury as the assault progresses.
- Nothing
I visit him again, this time by train.
(The ten-hour drive gets tougher as I age,
but then, what right do I have to complain?
To grow old is a gift.) This may assuage
my sense there’s nothing I can do, although
a visit’s nearly nothing. Yes, I care;
that’s what my presence demonstrates, I know,
but it will make him strain for things now rare
or difficult: the teasing repartee,
a walk outdoors, shared meals and memories.
He reassures me that he feels okay,
though I watch him declining, by degrees.
I bring his favorite chocolates, as if sweets
could mask the bitter taste nothing defeats.
- Want
Not long before the end, he made it clear:
there was so little that he wanted—just
to stay with those he loved, not disappear
into the latter part of dust to dust.
So many of us want so much: we crave
the shiny toy, the extra buck, and more
when less would do—stuff that will never save
our souls or bodies. I knew that before
my brother’s diagnosis, and today
I can’t claim to have unlearned pointless greed.
I find, though, that it’s easier to weigh
the worth of things desired, to measure need,
to understand there isn’t much I lack.
He wanted only time. I want him back.
*****
Jean L. Kreiling writes: “My brother Bill was wise and witty and loving, and deserved a far longer life; I miss him every day. He was teased and adored by his three older sisters, he made our parents proud, and he created a beautiful family of his own. His magnificent wife and his three devoted grown children took good care of him in the year between his brain cancer diagnosis and his death, but it was a very difficult year for Bill and all who loved him.”
This tribute to him as a series of shakespearean sonnets was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry 11.
Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry; her work has been awarded the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, and three New England Poetry Club prizes, among other honors. A Professor Emeritus of Music at Bridgewater State University, she has published articles on the intersections between music and literature in numerous academic journals. She lives on the coast of Massachusetts.
Photo: “Holding Hands on the Hornby Separated Bike Lane” by Paul Krueger is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
Form in Formless Times 