Mimi at Nepenthe

Mimi at Nepenthe
(For Kirsten)

They drive to Big Sur and
pull into a lot hovered by
witchcraft oaks

Says Rodolfo:
It's named for an elixir,
one that takes away all sorrows

Says Mimi:
In that case,
let's drink all that we can!

Scrubby hillsides sprayed with
copper sunset, a single
cloud in the shape of a boomerang

The Pacific far below,
a shade of forever nightsky that wraps the
continental rift like a fitted sheet

A fresh fire over
Mimi's left shoulder

Rodolfo takes a rhapsodic breath,
brings the fork to his mouth and
chews on a glazed duck that could
bring La Scala to tears

Even in Puccini,
such moments should not be possible

Cecily

Cecily

Caribbean moxie on a dolly face,

the tone pours out like

pecan praline expressed as an

algebraic formula

If the hands get any

where near the hips,

pull up a chair.

You are due for an

hour of unfiltered standup

Three hours later a lil-ol-me smile,

naughty niña from Juarez,

a range bigger than Wyoming

I wish she loved her

self as much as I do

One night she drove into a

parked car and removed every

inch of interior except the

part containing her

This is what some people need.

Some seeds do not

blossom until they

pass through fire

I am eager to see what she

becomes, and till then will

enjoy the liberties of a duet:

to look someone square in the face,

to sing and smile and match words,

our voices mixing in the ether as

the lights guide us home

From Michael J. Vaughn: Collected Poems

Notes: The last line is a quote from the Coldplay song "Fix You," one of the many tunes we do together.

Butterfly

Butterfly

Each night, the picture comes to kill me:

you and the baby, walking to the bedroom.

You tie an American flag around his eyes,

then sit in the kitchen and study your final option,

silver and cold to the touch.

When did the math arrive at this?

How many drunks, flare-ups, divorces,

pregnancies, bad dreams?

Hold an invisible gun in your hand.

Pull the trigger.

Feel how it flexes a muscle all the

way back to the elbow.

The finger cannot do this work alone.

Each night, I stand next to you in a

field in Atlanta as you bring the

metal to your chest, and I ask,

What was your last thought?

Why didn’t you think of calling me?

From Michael J. Vaughn: Collected Poems

Notes: about my dear friend Sharona, who committed suicide ten years ago, along with the kind of random thoughts that go through a grieving mind looking for reasons: the similarity to the final scene from Madama Butterfly, and, oddly enough, an interview with a pitching coach on how throwing a forkball causes wear and tear on the elbow.