UP JUMPS THE NIGHT by John Andrew Durler (the beach read txt) 📖

the fog down to valleys

through the curtained window

as we feast on pancakes, crisp bacon, white eggs

until the yellow spreads when broken with a piece of toast.

Across from us a young girl in a frilly white dress giggles

as she drops a piece of bacon in her milk, pulls it out and

says, "Yuck."

Helen watches her with a smile turned to longing.

Done-- outside, the sunshine breaks

over purple mountains--A deer grazes

alongside the roadhouse.

I knew what her mind was.

She will always think I deprived her.


God how she let me know.

Before I'm too old, she'd say Just one, a baby girl.

When people say not now

it's no, even if they mean tomorrow.

Tomorrow cannot keep a promise or a secret wish.

It dies in the night, unborn.

That's why I'm going back. That's why we'll never

have a baby-- too old--too late

nature man and woman give up

wishes for plainer things.

Things of great value like canasta, monopoly

plastic things, paper things, things of magic

and mystery that brown and crack in the night

like a branch outside that wakes you

and you heard it sleeping, awake

and the feeling persists in silence.


She said from the car, “Are you coming?”

Yes, I said, I'm sorry, I was thinking of something.


The ride was like starting out again, quiet

no real talk, except to point out some sight or sign.

We passed the farm twice, then remembering

the geography by the next one, we circled back

and drove in on a strange graveled road

that turned to red dirt.


A cruel wind whipped down the valley

A red dog came running, wagging its tail.

It looked like my dog, as a child, a lab-shepherd mix.

An old woman came out clamping a man's hat on her head.

A bearded man followed her. The dog growled.

“Behave you slut!” She yelled in a strong voice.

“Hi! Here for flowers?”

Flowers? This time of year?

“In the green house, up the hill!”

No, I used to live here, before you bought the farm.

“Billy? Oh my God! You were up to my knees.

I saw pictures of you, holding a calf, up in the attic.”

No. John, two years younger less a month.

“The one shot by a hunter?”

Yes and no, my brother Bill shot me, a hunting accident.

“Well, lay me down and fry me up.”

She laughed, a hearty booming bar room laugh.

“We sent you coloring books in the hospital

never knowing who you were. and your Grandpa

he died right after.

And then that poor baby your brother died

Must have been hard.

God knows we had ours on this farm.

We sold the mountain after my husband left us

nothing in the bank, and a mortgage behind.

Me and the kids, I mean, three I had

and we sold the stock, kept one cow for milk

then the horses went. The kids cried but understood.

Then the mountain, after the survey

had marble and Granite, silver and black

so we got a windfall.

The bank was thrilled. They got their money

not all at once, but over five years

and well, we didn't get rich because

my husband showed up and gouged me for half.

And oh my God, I'm so sorry

You must want to walk through.”

I took my wife's hand. We walked through the house.

The room I stopped in as they continued, was my bedroom

where we napped together, was not changed

except for linen and, a leak stain in the ceiling.


Hearing their voices through the walls

distant in echoing hallways

I ran my fingers over the pillow

and sat lightly on the bed.

His presence was there, still--after the years.


My mind revealed as home movies scenes long forgotten.

I watched myself and them, as if in a darkened room:

In the drenched sleep of a summer day

The marrow of my bones chill.

I jump out of steaming sleep

The buzz of a bottle fly blasts out the open window

finger nail digs into the lump of poison

tearing flesh as my focus drills

on my brother's presence missing from my side.


I leap from the bed, , please, please!

I unlock the bedroom door, flee barefooted

across pine floors through the kitchen, the back door

over the porch around the house, turn to the sound

of farm machinery in the hay field.


I see death on the cab of the truck scream ! Stop!
The sound of terror dies in the roar of the engine.

I run.

She lifts my brother up to the running board.
Death slides down from the cab and waits under the truck.

I run.

He pulls the door handle, it goes down.


I run.

The small sweaty hand slips from rounded chrome.


I run.


He falls.

I run.


She trips, falling into him in flight

as he thumps to ground, he rolls.

Truck wheels roll over his head.

How was the window open?

Each time I told him stories I locked it.

We would nap in afternoons, legs and arms entwined.

We were of the same soul, blood, bright, deep

flowing through brothers. I bathed and dressed him.


For thirty five years I see death sneak beneath the truck

and wait--brother or sister? And then the taking.


To reach out to a robin's egg, not touch it's frail shell

and see him question the pale blue, the mother's red breast.

To watch him run from a spitting honking goose

turn with a stick, defiant being embarrassed

chase it back to the barnyard in zigzag pursuit

then stop to cry, throwing the stick down

walking back to the house ineffectively punching

and kicking me, sobbing, I was scared. I was scared.

I laughed, soothed, calmed him,

as we walked back to lock the geese pen.


These come to me all times, along with the shadow
under the truck, before and after, as I fill my barrel

with tears, empty my heart until hollow,

and want so much to change it. I would have

dove under that truck to stop it, or push my sister,

my father, my mother, older brother, anyone, a stranger,

if I could have. I ask people, sometimes

if they would give their life for another.

When they say yes, I say to myself, too bad

you weren't there. Is this selfish. Yes it is.

In the field, clutching my coat the wind muffles

all sound but its own. I try to find the place

where the faded blue blanket covered him,

already sponging his life.

The wind denies me, in the change of this place

and its fierce buffeting scrapes the tears from my face.

l and scream in the sanctuary of the wind.


The smell of snow is in the valley.

If it comes before the wind subsides

it will be a blizzard .

I turned my back to the wind, walked to the house

shook the sand from my hair and face, and walked in.

They were in the kitchen.

She said I missed the tour, but would show me through.

I said no, I prefer to remember it as it was, and thanked

her three or four times for her hospitality.

I was glad they had the farm.

For Me the Farm had died a long time ago.


Leaving the farm the storm stopped

After we got home, we made love on the couch

I listened to her murmurs of the child,

praying the seed would take, after, wiping some off her thighs.

Maybe we'll get lucky, I said. She smiled.
I carried her upstairs and we made love again,

slowly caressing with lips, fingers and toes

falling asleep holding each other.


BIRD SONG
I wake up with a chill from a bird's song
look out my open doorway
see it's a yellow warbler
drop crumbs, invite the bird in.

Eventually, it pecks my kitchen floor.

It gobbles up each crumb.

must have escaped its cage.

I slowly bend, slip my hands on its throat,

feeling wing bones

hollow, fragile,

feathers soft as dandelion puffs

able to fly free, as I never could.


I peer into black bulging eyes,

feel the rapid heartbeat

know my power,

open my hand.


"Never trust mankind," I say.

It blinks, shrugs, peeps E sharp,

and flies out the doorway.

Later that night the bird's song cuts through the dark

shatters my windows, tears down walls and roof.

I stand in the debris as free as he.


I'D LIKE

to get inside someones body; for empathy

to feel what a big nose smells. Is it stronger, or the same?

If I had long fingers, would I play a guitar better?

If I were taller, would I feel the same about tall people?

They intimidate me, slightly.

Would I feel the same about people my size, then?

Or would I look down on them?

I don't now. If I was big and heavy,

would I be a bully, or a Teddy Bear;

from my own perspective?

I've known more small bullies than big ones.

The small ones piss me off. The big ones scare

the crap out of me.

I guess size is a factor about how we feel about people.

Maybe, if they're big and gentle, we love them more,

because we're afraid of their power, not them,

maybe, we take small people for granted more to be nice.


I'd like to feel what a big belly is like--once.

Or a fat ass. I bet they're more comfortable.

Especially sitting on hard things. Or laying on