Cheeks

for Janae D Rushin June 1989- January 2014

And suddenly it's been six years. The

last of you like the night raven noted for his song. 

As a spring buck perhaps or how you use to

know the name of each foal. How

we practiced our afro's round like unrolled moons

until spin drift tired out our wrists. And

who can say now what waxy hoops drape

the sides of fiction if your imaginary

dolls aren't truthful? And don't get me wrong.

I don't mean that death dresses the random

flowered spikelet's  in their panicum of silver, 

yearn gowns without foraging for the riches

of some larger truth. Or that a cheek is

a lantern, or better said, a science by which

the throbbing eye lids dress their luster by. Or

a light, not carried by the wind, that covers you

while you crouched to take a pee next to the car. 

But time politely waits for no one, they say. And a grave

bore in the earth only means that holes are

independent of passage or dominion.

But if you were to have died, who would

drive my bones, or set off my abstraction from the whole? I mean

when you touched my cheek with yours, what bets

the good  and evil provoked against ourselves? Like

the birthmark  above your ear that you amazingly draped your

bangs over and that turns purple like the earth? And

all of this, a remedy and a reluctance

like a giant bird loaded down with snow: What you heard

inside my cheek is what I heard inside of yours. "Now homeward

having fed your fill, Virgil wrote. Eve's star is rising-go

my she-goat go"/

Reviews

[Beccy]

This is such a powerfully touching poem. Reading it, I felt it move into me; deep into my very heart and soul.

I accept that death in the natural order of things, is inescapable; that just like the eternal circle of the seasons, old must give way to new;. But such a loss as you describe here, is of the most dreadful kind, and one I pray I will never, ever, experience.

She is still with you, always will be; touching her precious cheek against yours.

Beccy. X

[h d e rushin]

thanks love....And I cant write a poem or translate one without her looking over my shoulder. When she was a little girl I bought for her a box of stick on magnetized letters... One morning, just fooling around, she noticed that she had composed a poem. She was so happy. That's how poetry starts Beccy...not with hurt or judgment....but with excitement.....dana

[Coyote Poetry]

Powerful writing dear friend. You danced on many thoughts and made the reader think. People, we allowed in, leave us with tattoos memory. These words shared could be a lead to a story or a memory. I hope you are doing well, stay safe and be careful my friend.
Coyote

[h d e rushin]

thank you my friend for your kind remarks..and yes I am staying as safe as I can...You be safe also....dana

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome dear Dana.

[barleygirl]

I think of your writing as being straightforward in a delightfully snappy way, so I wasn't entirely engrossed in the first part where you seem to go a little Elizabethan on us (not my favorite sound for putting words & ideas together). There's something too stilted in that genre for me to get emotionally connected. But I also notice that the "real dana" seems to be pushing to the surface about midway, as if your raw pungent slamming style could not be held down for long under those frilly robes of distinction. At the end, there's a half-hearted salute back to the more celebrated poetics of this formal-sounding stylized oratory. Sorry I cannot enthusiastically embrace the entirety of your style in this poem, but as always, your message feels powerful with punchy details (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[h d e rushin]

I agree Margie....the lyric-descriptive-narrative of the age I think your speaking of means only that in that class of Elizabethan poetry I took at the university, the class I couldn't keep my eyes open for, I too failed to be completely swayed by the "songs" of it. And what you call stilted (perhaps) is just the restrictive intention of sonnets girdled by the iambus. ..But I feel what your saying about the "real dana" ; the one of fiery protest or of deep emotional dragon taming. Thank you Margie for that brain of yours and thank you for agreeing with me that loss is like a lace front wig....it has straps to adjust for head size, not for heart size...dana

[Robert Trakofler]

Janae is a beautiful name dana, I have had to come back to this poem many times and I still feel that my scribble won't give it justice. Your love is so strongly conveyed in these lines that for me to speak of it seems an afront. I never had a child so I could never truly know the depths of emotion that you so strongly show in this. The image of her cheek touching yours takes my breath, and the image of your loss keeps it. I see the baby Janae's cheek touch yours and then the young adults cheek touching yours and I just want to buckle over when I think of the stark vacancy of that not happening again

[h d e rushin]

moments in our lives....turning 35 then 50. getting your drivers license. hitting a home run. seeing a live concert. burying a loved one. Everything else in between ,which superficially resembles living, is as Baraka wrote "the bitter bullshit, rotten parts" is just nervous background noise. Thank you my friend for those sincere remarks....And as I mentioned before, she was the only thing I ever really got "right".

[Robert Trakofler]

well from where I stand you got a few other things write

[Paul Shannon]

Woah you have some near-Shakespeare level prose there!!
"And who can say now what waxy hoops drape the sides of fiction"
Outstanding

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dearest.....those are some lofty comparisons.....dana

[Corset]

Every line of this is treasure trove of amazing gathered together to make her dance for us, i suppose you are right there is no point in getting angry over things that leave us with a heart shaped hole in our chest, and who can call the injustice of losing a child before we have the chance to pave the way for them anything close to the meaning of fair, but that saying that nothing in life is fair only makes the hair rise on the back of my neck, and that little jaw muscle clench so beautiful the sadness in this missing of her in memories like a collage of moments stitched together makes a living movie in your mind can make you smile when you want to cry. When someone else is greiving it makes us remember our own.

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest...and as I mentioned before...she was the only thing in this life I've actually gotten right...your words are like pearls....dana

[Corset]

I feel the same way about my kids

[emmajoy]

I mean
when you touched my cheek with yours, what bets
the good and evil provoked against ourselves? Like
the birthmark above your ear that you amazingly draped your
bangs over and that turns purple like the earth? And
all of this, a remedy and a reluctance
like a giant bird loaded down with snow: What you heard
inside my cheek is what I heard inside of yours. "Now homeward
having fed your fill, Virgil wrote. Eve's star is rising-go
my she-goat go"

Dana, friend, here, there, throughout, Love speaks between every letter, under and above every word; memories tattooed into your mind and heart. This is more than beautiful.

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dearest for those words of inspiration. love always...dana

[Emily B]

I saw her smile in your words. There was heaven in that sparkle. Much love to you.

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dearest Mentor.....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"we practiced our afro's round like unrolled moons"
"But time politely waits for no one, they say. And a grave
bore in the earth only means that holes are
independent of passage or dominion."

in particular these lines struck me...the entire piece plays hard on my emotions...
and i think her star is still rising...and always will in your eyes, dana,
j.

[h d e rushin]

my dear brother.....she was the only thing I got "right" while I've been on this earth....Thank you for your kind words my friend....dana