Max Heinegg

The Pit

“You’ve got to get down into the pit of the self, the real pit, and then you have to find your own way to climb out of it.” - Stanley Kunitz

On a night when NPR offers the gravel
buzz of Franz Wright talking down his panic
into the digital tape in the Waltham apartment
he was afraid to leave, sure he would not make it
across the street that day, I thought to call my father
who, at 78, finishes all conversations with I love you,
musing on the end of his own life without being ill.
…
A year later, the fragment takes on form to say
my father is dead at 79 of a heart attack,
and again, I hear the gravel buzz. That word
reminds me of Franz’s poem “Alcohol”
in which the drink’s personified and haunts
the drinker with the promise of nearness and
oblivion. But who has to be anywhere anymore? Like
Franz said, We can do anything we want. God doesn’t comment.
…
Grades became letters, absences normalcy;
names detached from faces. I spoke to the gallery,
I spoke to myself.  Thinking of his ossified body, 
disembodied voice, vivified in memory. The mask
my countrymen refused meant I did not see him
before he died. Didn’t want visitors. Worried. Shut-in,
wolfing sound bytes. We waited for the window, but
on our planned weekend, I took my kid to see a college.
…
He died soon after retirement, claimed he was
done writing. Does that mean that he needed
work to live? We dig the pit deeper thinking that
will be the way out. Did the bottle have a message
at its bottom, tongue to dregs? I know that
Franz wrote it better. Many more intimate with
the sinister familiar, have to be reminded by witnesses.
Blackouts. Someone was deciding, decided. Did.
…
Good effort made visible, sprayed broken earth dug
from the pit circle the base, loose enough to cover
but not to stay. Scraping, in the dark, I hit the rock
and then freshwater. A father’s legacy is work
and how much damage he does doing it. Don’t
chase erasure. Disappearer, the pit deepens easily
into a cave that quiets the blood. You don’t have to
listen to your mind. Put the drink aside to climb.

https://imagejournal.org/article/conversation-franz-wright/

Expectations

Once a marking period, I let her sleep
through the morning bells. I leave her
to rest the day before a mock trial
or finish a project before it's due,
to balance the days ahead with soccer.

I left work today, during my prep, texted her
How about the Greek Diner?   Yes!
On the way, I saw two dropouts I taught
earlier this year, walking down Playstead.

One, gentle, who can long jump 24 feet.
Another, a would-be rapper, red curls, gaunt
laughter, always high, but passed my quizzes
without reading the books.

I tried to de-emphasize due dates, made exceptions,
stayed after, gave incompletes, but in the end,
7:45 AM wasn’t gonna happen.

She and I drink coffee together, talk about afternoon
responsibilities.

I hope they don’t hold it against me.
I muse convincingly, They chose
to leave school.

I catch the clock & must respect it.
She pours syrup on her bacon;
I wolf down home fries.

My class expects
a teacher.

 

Max Heinegg is the author of Good Harbor, which won the inaugural Paul Nemser Prize from Lily Poetry Press. He lives and teacher in Medford, MA. Find him on the web at www.maxheinegg.com