Chris Mattingly
Photo: brainsik
I mixed a pinch of your ashes
With ground coffee
& brewed them in my French Press.
It sat on my countertop
Like a neo-Pagan ritual:
Blend 2/3 dark roast with 1/3
Cremated remains & soak
In 2 cups boiled tear drops
Until dead friend appears.
The press darkened
With swirling wisps
That morphed into a funnel cloud
Of black hair.
That’s what it came to,
After the fits of tears,
After the sudden breakdowns
& unanswered prayers like questions
Vanished into your voice mail.
I turned two pictures of you
Into a hologram.
When I shift the image
You raise a coffee mug
To your face
& point toward me
With a burning cigarette.
Smoke drifting into the room,
I guide your lucent, outstretched
Arm toward my face.
I transplanted
A tree in your name.
A lone Cherokee Dogwood
I found while walking the canal
Outside town. On my knees
I dug with clawed fingers
Afraid a spade would lacerate
The roots, then carried it home,
The root ball like a heart
Cradled in my arms,
& buried it with hope
That it would grow like you,
Up, always up.
5 comments so far ↓
Katherine // Dec 3, 2008 //
This is worth reading over and over.
Dave Torneo // Dec 5, 2008 //
This is a very moving poem, written with love AND precision.
It’s one of those poems written out of necessity, not obligation.
And I agree with another comment, it should be read over and over. DT
katerina klemer // Dec 5, 2008 //
I also agree with the comments. Chris is a very interesting young author. We will follow his literary career with interest. As far as I know This is his first literary publication!
Erica Maxwell // Apr 22, 2010 //
Chris,
how exciting. I am sitting here reading your poems and thinking, he has been writing like this since like 5th grade? Impressive. Would love to see you when you come in town!
Bob Morphew // May 30, 2010 //
Simply amazing my friend!
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