Good Friday

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where your are is where you are not.


—from TS Eliot, Four Quartets

As You Passed Me



on the Casa Loma path, lobelia in bloom,

things I’d talked over with my analyst

sang in my mind. You’d been dead six years,


why lift the veil for me just then? Yesterday I posted

your 1942 photo booth picture, and Stan wrote,

Playboy. Another shared the post. You were Dad,


Dad who let me drag him by his hand from front door

to kitchen where not one but two kittens nestled

in the warmth of the stove, the winter cold


releasing from the wool of your overcoat. This may

be my first memory. I was three, you were thirtynine,

unhappiness at a job eating you.


He had your gait, he wore a suit, and as he passed

he smiled, then looks at me, and says, Hello,

John-Prine-like: Hello in there. Hello.


Gretchen gave me a handful of Doris’s ashes,

put them in a vintage diner maple syrup dispenser,

wrapped it in one of Doris’s scarves. I set it on


my dresser. One night before bed her muffled voice

crying, Help! And what about the Brazilian spoon

lying on the kitchen table, which as I enter


to make my first cappuccino of that day

announces unmistakably, Your beloved is coming.

Or the shaman stone from Chile, one among


six round stones in my bowl, but the only

one Michael picks up, to comment, Why is there a star

roughly engraved here? I think you’d understand


why I don’t dismiss these events, but neither do I claim

to know what brings the mysteries to our doors,

or why we suddenly see out of blind living.


I cannot answer (Phyllis Webb), only ask. In-fighting

over who the Makers are eat me. Flee the power,

go instead where there is no place that does not see you


no matter how dialogic, no matter how accommodating,

flying in the face of the ointments. Hello brave

failure, another kind of place says, here comes your own


true love across the 11:11 auspices that bind you

to your dead. Hello in there. Hello

from here. Hello.

Jupiter, the giver of gifts and luck

The astrologists tell me that 2022 is my Emerald Year.

“Pisces rules the sea where there can be no fences. . .

“If a Pisces comes to realize they have been taken for granted, especially in a relationship, the little Fish will swim to a warmer place in the sea, never to return. Once you have lost your Pisces, you have no hopes of your Fish ever returning. . .

“The person who loves you will be a lucky soul, for your life together will be filled with magic and stardust. You are a visionary, a dreamer, and your relationship will be the little piece of heaven you build together against a sometimes harsh world. Your mate will forever enjoy your imaginative, caring, and enchanting nature, for with Pisces, life is always a never-ending surprise, . . .always accompanied by heartfelt feeling.”

—Susan Miller