Heavy
1.
You carried it kinda heavy though, old Johnny
confided on my last day of a 3-year gig
slinging word-songs and making zines with youth without
housing or certain tomorrows. Old John
who on titanium hips, stayed light, all spirit
as he sailed alongside these kids, anchored
in addiction while in my youth, I plodded on, bewildered
by the teens, each morning bearing
new banners of brilliance
and blood. Heavy.
2.
I lifted Grandma’s spare oxygen tank easily
in my little hands, though she’d warned
it’d be heavy. I was glad. Strong
for the first time and good thing
for she was gasping into the light
of a spring morning. I’m out,
she said. Hurry! And I lugged the tank to her
to clip hose into valve,
into nostrils. She cranked the nozzle. And we waited
to the soundtrack of silence, time
slipping away. Still no air. Call
911, she whispered. This tank’s empty.
It would have been too heavy for you to lift full,
the paramedic said, torpedoing
a new tank into the carrier by Grandma’s bedside
along with the weight
of work, the dire need to task death away
and the probability of acting in error.
3.
In seeped oxygen to keep Grandma alive for six more months
of scrapbooking, showing me
how disparate images could unite into a whole—
sobering you, clobbering you with wonder.
The magazine clippings’ sheen lit by spring sun
were so light, so separate
from the heaviness of the tank, my future
work, and my heart.
4.
Old John’s tossed-off remark about my work left me the way
Grandma did as she was carted out by paramedics,
the way the youth did. Light as sparrows, they moved on
leaving me gasping
for breath, anchored by their greatest lines and memories,
a different kind of addiction.
Since 2007, Shaun Anthony McMichael has taught writing to students from around the world, in classrooms, juvenile detention halls, mental health treatment centers, and homeless youth drop-ins throughout the Seattle area. Over 90 of his poems, short stories, and reviews have appeared in literary magazines, online, and in print, including the forthcoming short story collection The Wild Familiar (Fall, 2024; CJ Press). He lives in Seattle with his wife and son. Visit him at his website shaunanthonymcmichael.com.