Bob Hoeppner

Divorcing the Dead

Three years after my wife died I decided

not to talk to her anymore. No more,

the monologue delivered before dawn

to the drawn dark drapes. No more,

the dialogues with the reflective face

of developed resemblance. My wife left

me her face with a toothbrush in it

mostly, shadowed bags bulging

with what had been seen

too late. My late wife

was never on time.

Even her death missed its prognosis

for a while. Still, so much unsaid.

Three years was long enough.

Not to say it all.

To give up.

© 2008 Bob Hoeppner

Gone

I believe in gone.

I believe in the holy cost

of absence making the heart

go wander. I've seen stigmata

like sauce on spaghetti arms

holding up their hands like crosses

to ward off the recognizing hug:

a sign misinterpreted.

I've felt "hello" turn to paste

in the mouth like a wafered host.

I've heard "how've ya been?"

filtered through the anonymous slots

of conscience in a small dark space.

I've tasted a trickle in the back

of the throat that disappointed

like grape juice when wine was expected.

I've smelled the incense of misgivings

censered in the aisle where

two meet where one turned away.

I light a candle for the gone

and expect it to burn behind my back,

forcing the shadow I always walk into,

but I have no fear

except of turning back.

I believe in gone.

© 2005 Bob Hoeppner

Garden Gone By

On this stalk of doubt

fisted thoughts strain

to unclench into blossoming grief,

the lung of each leaf

with an inward sigh

feeds the slow scream of the root

digging ever deeper for a meaning

until it reaches rock,

mistakes that for significance,

turns back

because the answer's just too hard;

meanwhile, the flower's browning,

colors, drab and shed,

leave solid shadow,

husk of sun,

by itself, a period in the snow,

with others, an ellipsis

which the rock knew

was the proper usage

even as it sank into

a stew of senseless grammar.

© 2005 Bob Hoeppner

Statuary Consolation

There is a land

of antique leaves

and recent leave-takings,

where armless statues stand

above unclasping hands

and look with marble eyes

on translucent tears,

the blind observing the invisible.

The sadness in skin

leans against unfeeling stone,

puts ear to chiseled lips

and listens for a whisper

that will not come.

All voice is dust

to hardened hearts.

Better to put one's head

in one's own hands,

hear the blood push the veins around,

the bullying of the pulse inside the body,

a code of cardiac tissue

that says, simply, I'm alive.

That is all you know

and all you need to know

even though it's not enough.

© 2006 Bob Hoeppner

Mountain, About to Fall

The mountain stands inside itself.

"I'll level with you" it says

"in time. I'll leave you snapped-off memories

you can polish in the tumbler of your mind.

Semiprecious, you can't sell them for much,

but they will be good to look at

when I'm gone. They will hurt

the bottoms of your feet

until you pick them up and slip

them in the pouch at the center

of your chest. Never draw

the strings taut on that weighted sack

inside you, no matter how heavy

the gems will bear you down.

When I am nowhere, I will be everywhere,

and you must always take me

where you find me. Like stones

in a wishing well, each moment

you hold close brings water closer

to the brim, where you can drink it,

there refreshed. This is the love I bring you,

that from my broken body you reassemble

in your heart, the river floods sandbagged banks,

overcomes the mortal fears that dam it,

touches roots of flowers,

slakes gardens, pumps

through fuses of food

feeding our whole family.

I'll be with you when I'm not,

more than I ever was. You will see mist

where I stood against the sky,

but feel my weight in your breath,

and never more so, my dearest,

than when you remember

and laugh."

© 2006 Bob Hoeppner

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