C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

The Grief of Gravity; Crash; Boxes

By: Ed McManis


The Grief of Gravity


They say it rains

diamonds on Jupiter,

Saturn too, and black

holes aren’t really

black.


Gravity’s real, though, unless

you’re in orbit or don’t believe.


Remember, science has all

the answers you need

except for the ones

you want.


I haven’t prayed in

years, but last night

I gazed into the April

evening, words a mantra—


“Please” on the front

“God “at the end.

Constellations scattered like

salt like diamonds illuminating


a corridor for a jagged, hurried

prayer racing for a black hole,

oh so deep, deep enough to swallow

all this grief.




Crash


Had we understood

the sacred, recognized the

Angel of Death

riffling through and dog-earing

our portfolio pages; recognized her

sidekick dusting us with virus,

we would have smelled

the smoke, finger-traced

the cloven imprimatur,

remembered what to sprinkle

above each doorway,

looked twice at the image

reflected in the window

of the thirty-third

floor, arms extended

cruciform

in a swan dive;

recognized all the grandmas

genuflecting, collecting

the worthless swirling

paper, hoarding

the tinfoil, grandpa

shaking his head,

digging out the wrinkled

gray work-shirt, slash of a

smile, gnarled fingers

creasing that last

clean pair of pants.




Boxes


Moving at forty from the only home he’s known,

the one bought in a wedding deal from the folks;


the house where he raised the kids, poured the patio,

mounted the basketball goal, planted the peach


and plum trees—he stares and does the mental math

on the divorce: X alimony over Y weekends.


The mouth of the garage gapes, his yearly

height penciled on the door jamb. He’s finally


defined by the watermark just above childhood.

A warehouse of boxes waits seeking order,


all the orphaned memories clamor to jump into

his middle-aged arms.


He recreates the buzz, winning that prized Koala Bear

half his size, made in Taiwan, now huddled behind


the picnic basket, inert. He remembers the flash

of the winning free-throw at the amusement park,


his date—soon to be his wife—crossing her arms, hugging

the trophy past all those who hit the back of the rim.


Winning bathes you in the moment;

losing begs another quarter.


For no one, he mimes the shot, wrist cocked

in perfect release, as he remembers, too


that pair of ruby cuff-links won at the dart throw,

how she dropped them in the car, how he found


the one a year later, under her seat;

how he quit seeking its mate.





Ed McManis is a writer, editor, erstwhile Head of School, and father—not always in that order. His work has appeared in more than 50 publications and numerous anthologies including Narrative, Blue Road Reader, Comstock Review, California Quarterly, & others. He, along with his wife, Linda, have just published esteemed author Joanne Greenberg’s (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) latest novel, Jubilee Year. He has two grown sons and two granddaughters.

Little known trivia fact: he holds the outdoor free-throw record at Camp Santa Maria: 67 in a row.


The Grief of Gravity:

With the pandemic, everything seemed to shrink; quarantine, isolation, sickness, fear & death. I found myself reading more about the stars, the universe, the remarkable explorations. Such a vastness, an antidote to my Zoom calls & the depressing news reports. Read this article about Jupiter and my grief sailed there.


Crash:

A version of this poem first appeared after the ’08 crash. I was forced to move my family to California for work. Somewhere in the back of my mind, as things crumbled & folks went broke, I thought of my Grandma, a “Depression Baby”. She saved everything: I remember giants balls of rubber bands, tinfoil, stacks of canned peaches in her basement. And Grandpa always sitting there silently, ready to force himself to stand up & go to work.


Boxes:

This poem is book-ended between the move out of Colorado in ’08, a result of the crash, and then the return in 2020. Luckily, our house didn’t sell, and we returned—same junk, same garage, historical artifacts of all those days; raising kids, battling the quotidian and the subsequent treasure hunt through the ashes of those days, looking for that gem.