Little Time by Roger Guetta
Stink-Bomb
by Robin Sweet
I sit at my desk to write it away—
that stink-bomb of feeling. I try to write
about my father’s death. Not the large story:
the massive electrical failure of his heart, his organs
fried like eggs on an Alabama sidewalk—not any of that!
I won’t go near it.
And so I write:
I am cooking spaghetti when the stove-top clock
flips: 8:05.
And it’s true, I was cooking spaghetti when my eyes
were drawn to the stove-top clock:
8:05
—the moment of knowing and unknowing—
the moment of my father’s death
though I do not know it yet; I have yet to be struck
unclean and left like Pigpen: ash on my face, puff
ball of dirt hovering at my heels—O the stink of me!
Later, I am told my mother was cooking too.
And so I write:
Later, I am told my mother was cooking too.
While upstairs my father lay slumped
in his easy chair. Was she cooking spaghetti?
Was she too out of Brillo?
I had been cooking spaghetti and the white Formica
was stained with tomatoes
but in my poem
I made it white porcelain—
The white porcelain is stained with tomatoes.
I’m out of Brillo; It takes forever to clean.
I don’t own any Brillo, but I like the sound of it
—BRILLO—rolling off my tongue. But then I think:
You would never use Brillo on white porcelain.
So out it goes. And I am left
with dirty countertops
and a stink-bomb of grief.
Robin, I was touched greatly by the picture you painted with the freeverse feel of your words (Roger’s pic is great, of course, but your poetry :::jolted::: me into recalling a panic just last week when I saw the phone ring from my parents. A picture of their wedding day 62 years ago paints my lockscreen when my Mom calls. It was my Dad. He never calls. It’s always my mother who calls. So hearing my Dad’s voice meant trouble was breaking. It was, but not what I expected. I thought he was going to say, “Son, your mother is gone.” But he didn’t. He did say his brother has just died. So it was a sad call anyway. But happy in a way I couldn’t have expected.
I’m sorry for your loss. That you and your mother were both cooking and knew at the same time and sensed “that moment of knowing and unknowing” may never be understood this side of heaven. I’m sad for your loss and your story finds me oddly bracing for mine. I don’t know when. I don’t know what I’ll be doing when it comes. But I hope I have the presence of mind – as did you – to record it so beautifully.
Blessings,
Clint
Clint,
Your response makes me so glad that Roger dig up this poem and release it into the world! Losing a parent has remained the most torturous and spiritual experience of my life. There are many phases of grief and there there is the dead silence that follows as the years tick by. It has been nice to re-visit this poem after so long. Thanks for being so open, Clint. You have made my day!
xo
Robin
OMG, this is fantastic!! Wonderful image Roger, and Robin, your poem is superb… so raw. BRAVO to you both!
Thanks, Catherine!
What a wonderful collaboration!
Shane, it’s been tremendous fun. So glad you like!
Wow! I knew Roger was multi-talented, but Robin… Wow! Thanks for sharing that extraordinarily moving poem. Just wonderful!
Thank, Cindy! Your enthusiasm gives me great courage!
Great work, both of you!
Thanks so much, Kris!