By: Roger Iverson
I haven’t been to the Ocean Crest Resort
since I bought rounds for former brothers-in-law.
We sat in summer’s sun on the deck among tree tops
and watched the ocean run and maybe we ate
seafood but I know I bought beers
and scotch for my brothers up there. It was
my calling. I can’t go back, I
no longer hold claim to our land our
homes we built together. Dreams dissolved, I pile
and pack on me alone all blame. Had I strength
I would leave myself, I told her and god
I’ve tried. Sister is finished. Grief
of family’s life death continues to wash me over
in flagrant detail. Dear Brothers press
your wife to your core. Prove
you daily adore her. Steer
from my grief: her leaving, parents
retreating, fading nephews and niece, sisters and brothers,
my family who enveloped and coaxed
my healthiest parts to laughter and song
- now untouchable.
Funeral deprived I long
to stop crashing through floors to
simply resolve into a dew. I wallow
in hollow solitude with nothing and no one, condemned
to remember I once had a calling
and brothers I knew
Roger tried.
Mr. Iverson has written uncountable poems, scores of short fiction, a dozen plays, three of which have repeatedly seen the light of stage. He had also written three blindingly boring screenplays.
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