From Certain Distances In Space I Still See My Brother
by Gary Beaumier
Somewhere mother holds you against her breasts in a Chicago flat
-- the war winding down --
while she warms a bottle and tests the milk on the tender of her wrist;
“you are my sunshine,” she sings.
Somewhere you sit in a quilted coat
upon a tricycle in front of a red house,
and later still your fastball hisses over
home plate into the strike zone.
Somewhere a man says we all derive from stars,
while a holy person declares we will live forever.
You still succor your fractious babies as you pace a midnight floor.
Only just now a distant planet watches you bend to help a student
or soften your embrace to your wife in the utter dark.
Somehow you glide out of a fifth floor hospital room into a painted twilight,
into streams of cars and trucks and exhaust
as your family holds your emancipated body and rides with you to the edge of life
and somewhere a medical student
peels back what remains of you
to learn the human clockwork.
In his later years Gary Beaumier has become something of a beachcomber and has self diagnosed with “compulsive walking disorder.” On a number of occasions he has cobbled together wooden sailboats. He is a finalist and semi finalist for the Luminaire Award for several of his poems. He has had three poems published in Flumes Winter 2017 and one poem in Third Wednesday as well as one poem in Chaleur Magazine and an upcoming recording in Lit_Tapes. He taught poetry in a women's prison.
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