Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,
a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.
What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come-
small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark-they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.
Ellen won't eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn't have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.
It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They're going to
less with time.
Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.
Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast.
A myth goes that when the years come
then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.
Monday, July 27, 2009
To The Boy Who Exploded, To The Boy Who Drowned, To The Boy Who Fell From Stars by Nicole Blackman
dead to me now, all dead to me
dying again and again with each telling
you agony kings
you you you false martyrs
who ran for the door
just before the check came.
damn the timing
and bless it too
america loves her sons who die
before their turn to cash in
stay dead, you're beautiful there
(that's where we love you best).
there is some gory ballet in the way
we tell the details of the crash
the car, the party, the necklace.
there is some physical release
at the punchline:
only half a mile from home.
just signed the record deal.
body so far gone he was identified
only by the padlock around his neck.
we take something from the site
every time we speak of it. some shell
some piece of twisted metal to slip in
our pocket, some clue that might be
crucial to the police yet we take it anyway
(like vultures, like rats).
this private grief hung in hung in public
as if it proves something about us
how much we knew of his life
how close we must have been to him
(closer than you, motherfucker, closer than you).
. . .
walking into the river
with your heavy boots on.
how dumb.
but everyone forgives a beautiful boy
and your black baptism held you undertow
under cool wet sheets
that pulled you down and down
for days until you rose
bloated and blue
and your mother said
I didn't think my son would ever walk out of the river...
and the internet girls wrung their hands
and said woe woe
while dj's at stations that never played your songs
played entire album sides in tribute
to a famous dead boy
with a famous dead father.
did you swallow water, did you swallow blood?
(thursday i watched your soundscan fly).
. . .
easy to touch stars when they glow in the dark
on your bedroom ceiling, the green a sickening cast.
you could count stars but you couldn't capture them.
you could name them but you couldn't keep them.
who would let you have them?
when you flew under them you could not taste them in the cold.
after years of being on the wrong side of the sky
you crept up at night and offered yourself from a rooftop and
reached up
jumped into the night's lace expecting some bright god
impressed
to lift you out of the twisted air into the dark dark blue.
they say the suicide usually dies of a heart attack
before he ever reaches ground
that there is a moment of redemption in mid-air
that the jumper waves and shakes his body trying to stop
stop
stop
did you see stars when you landed?
were you burning when you fell?
. . .
did all of you know the moment God took you back?
did you say a prayer or curse the dark?
did you relax and surrender or struggle against
the explosion the water the earth?
(the ground now soft for lack of your steps)
and do you have any words for us
the ones who clean out storage rooms and sell guitars
the ones who make statements to the press
and tell everyone we're doing fine now
and please make a donation in your name?
dying again and again with each telling
you agony kings
you you you false martyrs
who ran for the door
just before the check came.
damn the timing
and bless it too
america loves her sons who die
before their turn to cash in
stay dead, you're beautiful there
(that's where we love you best).
there is some gory ballet in the way
we tell the details of the crash
the car, the party, the necklace.
there is some physical release
at the punchline:
only half a mile from home.
just signed the record deal.
body so far gone he was identified
only by the padlock around his neck.
we take something from the site
every time we speak of it. some shell
some piece of twisted metal to slip in
our pocket, some clue that might be
crucial to the police yet we take it anyway
(like vultures, like rats).
this private grief hung in hung in public
as if it proves something about us
how much we knew of his life
how close we must have been to him
(closer than you, motherfucker, closer than you).
. . .
walking into the river
with your heavy boots on.
how dumb.
but everyone forgives a beautiful boy
and your black baptism held you undertow
under cool wet sheets
that pulled you down and down
for days until you rose
bloated and blue
and your mother said
I didn't think my son would ever walk out of the river...
and the internet girls wrung their hands
and said woe woe
while dj's at stations that never played your songs
played entire album sides in tribute
to a famous dead boy
with a famous dead father.
did you swallow water, did you swallow blood?
(thursday i watched your soundscan fly).
. . .
easy to touch stars when they glow in the dark
on your bedroom ceiling, the green a sickening cast.
you could count stars but you couldn't capture them.
you could name them but you couldn't keep them.
who would let you have them?
when you flew under them you could not taste them in the cold.
after years of being on the wrong side of the sky
you crept up at night and offered yourself from a rooftop and
reached up
jumped into the night's lace expecting some bright god
impressed
to lift you out of the twisted air into the dark dark blue.
they say the suicide usually dies of a heart attack
before he ever reaches ground
that there is a moment of redemption in mid-air
that the jumper waves and shakes his body trying to stop
stop
stop
did you see stars when you landed?
were you burning when you fell?
. . .
did all of you know the moment God took you back?
did you say a prayer or curse the dark?
did you relax and surrender or struggle against
the explosion the water the earth?
(the ground now soft for lack of your steps)
and do you have any words for us
the ones who clean out storage rooms and sell guitars
the ones who make statements to the press
and tell everyone we're doing fine now
and please make a donation in your name?
I Made a House of Houselessness by Rose O'Neill
I made a house of houselessness,
A garden of your going:
And seven trees of seven wounds
You gave me, all unknowing:
I made a feast of golden grief
That you so lordly left me,
I made a bed of all the smiles
Whereof your lip bereft me:
I made a sun of your delay,
Your daily loss, his setting:
I made a wall of all your words
And a lock of your forgetting.
A garden of your going:
And seven trees of seven wounds
You gave me, all unknowing:
I made a feast of golden grief
That you so lordly left me,
I made a bed of all the smiles
Whereof your lip bereft me:
I made a sun of your delay,
Your daily loss, his setting:
I made a wall of all your words
And a lock of your forgetting.
Girls by Nicole Blackman
When he leaves,
he leaves a space,
a big or little airless place
that begs to be filled.
A part of the weekend that says
What are you going to do now?
And you think if you fill it up
you'll survive.
So you work and clean and call
and cook and write and drink
and eat and sleep and shop
and say This is fine this is fine.
You can do this.
Laugh and go out drinking
with your friends when it's over.
Call everyone you know and say
whatever.
Shrug, clear your throat.
It's kind of like losing a dog.
You'll miss him
but maybe it's better this way.
His friends are still your friends
sometimes
and they watch you
because they send him messages
about how you're doing.
Sometimes they figure now is their chance
and they tell you they've always had it bad
for you.
Be careful with his friends.
So cut your hair
and learn to play guitar.
Walk fast and yell back
at bike messengers who tell you
what they'd do to you
if you were theirs.
Stop wearing his coat and sell his CDs.
White out his name in your address book.
Buy new perfume and learn to masturbate
with the showerhead.
Turn the pain into something you can use.
And when it feels like you're imploding,
like you're the only one
who wants to lie down in the street,
know that there will always be girls
who stream through this city
with their mouths slightly open
trying to breathe
and waiting to be kissed.
he leaves a space,
a big or little airless place
that begs to be filled.
A part of the weekend that says
What are you going to do now?
And you think if you fill it up
you'll survive.
So you work and clean and call
and cook and write and drink
and eat and sleep and shop
and say This is fine this is fine.
You can do this.
Laugh and go out drinking
with your friends when it's over.
Call everyone you know and say
whatever.
Shrug, clear your throat.
It's kind of like losing a dog.
You'll miss him
but maybe it's better this way.
His friends are still your friends
sometimes
and they watch you
because they send him messages
about how you're doing.
Sometimes they figure now is their chance
and they tell you they've always had it bad
for you.
Be careful with his friends.
So cut your hair
and learn to play guitar.
Walk fast and yell back
at bike messengers who tell you
what they'd do to you
if you were theirs.
Stop wearing his coat and sell his CDs.
White out his name in your address book.
Buy new perfume and learn to masturbate
with the showerhead.
Turn the pain into something you can use.
And when it feels like you're imploding,
like you're the only one
who wants to lie down in the street,
know that there will always be girls
who stream through this city
with their mouths slightly open
trying to breathe
and waiting to be kissed.
Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
You Must Accept by Kate Light
You must accept that’s who he really is.
You must accept you cannot be his
unless he is yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets, steel that bends
in a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle. He is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.
You must accept you cannot be his
unless he is yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets, steel that bends
in a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle. He is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.
Survival poem #17 by Marty McConnell
because this is what you do. get up.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
wish you were a bird. remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does that
woman walk? she is not sick or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right now.
that’s it.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
wish you were a bird. remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does that
woman walk? she is not sick or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right now.
that’s it.
Boats by Cyril Wong
You and your photographs of boats;
that repeated metaphor for departure,
or simply the possibility of a voyage?
What you cannot tell me, you tell me
with a vessel and its single passenger,
eyes fixed on some skylit conclusion.
Set apart and starkly upon a canvas
of tractable waves, brought to still
by the trigger-click of your camera,
like the sound a key makes when it
releases the lock. Your heart became
that lock; these images are how you have
always articulated distance, a withdrawal.
Darling, there are just as many ways
of saying goodbye as there are ways
of letting you go. The boat is narrow
like the width of my heart after
impossible loss, cruel resignation;
this heart you ride in. Love, if this is how
you choose to leave me, let me let you.
that repeated metaphor for departure,
or simply the possibility of a voyage?
What you cannot tell me, you tell me
with a vessel and its single passenger,
eyes fixed on some skylit conclusion.
Set apart and starkly upon a canvas
of tractable waves, brought to still
by the trigger-click of your camera,
like the sound a key makes when it
releases the lock. Your heart became
that lock; these images are how you have
always articulated distance, a withdrawal.
Darling, there are just as many ways
of saying goodbye as there are ways
of letting you go. The boat is narrow
like the width of my heart after
impossible loss, cruel resignation;
this heart you ride in. Love, if this is how
you choose to leave me, let me let you.
Part of The Woman Who Could Not Live with Her Faulty Heart by Margaret Atwood
It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child's fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don't want.
How can one live with such a heart?
Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child's fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don't want.
How can one live with such a heart?
Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.
Love After Love by Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
After a While by Veronica Shoffstall
After a while you learn
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child
And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way
Of falling down in mid flight
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers
And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child
And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way
Of falling down in mid flight
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers
And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.
Just Keep Quiet and Nobody Will Notice by Ogden Nash
There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Us by Nicole Blackman
There are so many of us in New York, you know.
We're the ones in bed early, with mud masks on our face
and dozens of unused candles around the room.
Hypnotized, we dive into potato chip bags
and keep eating until Ted Koppel's finished talking about
whatever he's talking about.
Birthdays aren't a big deal.
We try not to make a fuss because every year
we get closer to 30,
closer to not having, never having
the husband and baby
we swore we'd have by now.
We organize our closets,
make pesto,
hem skirts,
keep a journal
and read - a lot.
We have rented every goddamn movie at Blockbuster.
We walk by Baby Gap
and get a pain in our chest.
We start looking at our best friends and think,
hey, why not
- at least I know what she likes in bed.
We know how to make really good chili
but it always tastes funny when we eat it alone.
We sneeze and there is no one to bless us.
The hardest part is the music,
the songs that pour out of elevators and taxis,
with voices that crawl between our ears and say
This one's about you, babe.
This one's all about you.
We're the ones in bed early, with mud masks on our face
and dozens of unused candles around the room.
Hypnotized, we dive into potato chip bags
and keep eating until Ted Koppel's finished talking about
whatever he's talking about.
Birthdays aren't a big deal.
We try not to make a fuss because every year
we get closer to 30,
closer to not having, never having
the husband and baby
we swore we'd have by now.
We organize our closets,
make pesto,
hem skirts,
keep a journal
and read - a lot.
We have rented every goddamn movie at Blockbuster.
We walk by Baby Gap
and get a pain in our chest.
We start looking at our best friends and think,
hey, why not
- at least I know what she likes in bed.
We know how to make really good chili
but it always tastes funny when we eat it alone.
We sneeze and there is no one to bless us.
The hardest part is the music,
the songs that pour out of elevators and taxis,
with voices that crawl between our ears and say
This one's about you, babe.
This one's all about you.
Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
The Only Place by Linda Hasselstrom
The only place a woman can go to be alone
is the bathroom.
A woman would like to be wrapped in strong arms
when she cries, without having to explain,
or huddle on the couch wrapped in a blanket and a cat.
But all over America, women crouch instead
on a white, cold monument to wasting water.
We lean against a chilled tile wall,
stare at ourselves in an icy mirror,
flush the toilet to cover howls and curses,
brush our teeth twice to cover the taste of anger.
We lock the door, fill the tub with hot bubbles,
take a long time shaving our legs and armpits,
study the way waves break over bulging stomachs.
We scour the sink and rearrange the bottles under it,
refold towels, throw away old prescriptions,
count bandaids and bottles of suntan lotion.
We turn out the lights, stare into candle flames,
light incense, try to pretend we’ve taken our troubles
to a glowing temple, placed them in the lap
of a smiling golden Goddess.
Outside, men who wouldn't know what to do
if a woman curled up in bed and cried
can relax before bloodless images on TV
and think, "She's only in the bathroom
doing some woman's thing."
Behind a locked door, a woman
spins the empty toilet paper roll
like a Tibetan prayer wheel,
chanting "Help me, help me, help me."
is the bathroom.
A woman would like to be wrapped in strong arms
when she cries, without having to explain,
or huddle on the couch wrapped in a blanket and a cat.
But all over America, women crouch instead
on a white, cold monument to wasting water.
We lean against a chilled tile wall,
stare at ourselves in an icy mirror,
flush the toilet to cover howls and curses,
brush our teeth twice to cover the taste of anger.
We lock the door, fill the tub with hot bubbles,
take a long time shaving our legs and armpits,
study the way waves break over bulging stomachs.
We scour the sink and rearrange the bottles under it,
refold towels, throw away old prescriptions,
count bandaids and bottles of suntan lotion.
We turn out the lights, stare into candle flames,
light incense, try to pretend we’ve taken our troubles
to a glowing temple, placed them in the lap
of a smiling golden Goddess.
Outside, men who wouldn't know what to do
if a woman curled up in bed and cried
can relax before bloodless images on TV
and think, "She's only in the bathroom
doing some woman's thing."
Behind a locked door, a woman
spins the empty toilet paper roll
like a Tibetan prayer wheel,
chanting "Help me, help me, help me."
Civilization by Carl Phillips
There’s an art
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoing-ness like
that of song until at last
it ends. A centuries-old
set of silver handbells that
once an altar boy swung,
processing . . . You’re the same
wilderness you’ve always
been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But
the rest of it—all the rest—
was waking: more often
than not, to the next
extravagance. Two blackamoor
statues, each mirroring
the other, each hoisting
forever upward his burden of
hand-painted, carved-by-hand
peacock feathers. Don’t
you know it, don’t you know
I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said,
I love you. There’s an art
to everything. What I’ve
done with this life,
what I’d meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still flowering dogwood. Not
the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory . . . As he said to me
once, That’s all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost—
because addicted—do:
resigned all over again. It
only looked, it—
It must only look
like leaving. There’s an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How
eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoing-ness like
that of song until at last
it ends. A centuries-old
set of silver handbells that
once an altar boy swung,
processing . . . You’re the same
wilderness you’ve always
been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But
the rest of it—all the rest—
was waking: more often
than not, to the next
extravagance. Two blackamoor
statues, each mirroring
the other, each hoisting
forever upward his burden of
hand-painted, carved-by-hand
peacock feathers. Don’t
you know it, don’t you know
I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said,
I love you. There’s an art
to everything. What I’ve
done with this life,
what I’d meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still flowering dogwood. Not
the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory . . . As he said to me
once, That’s all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost—
because addicted—do:
resigned all over again. It
only looked, it—
It must only look
like leaving. There’s an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How
eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.
Survivorman by Sherman Alexie
Here’s a fact: Some people want to live more
Than others do. Some can withstand any horror
While others will easily surrender
To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.
In Utah, one man carried another
Man on his back like a conjoined brother
And crossed twenty-five miles of desert
To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?
Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.
Than others do. Some can withstand any horror
While others will easily surrender
To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.
In Utah, one man carried another
Man on his back like a conjoined brother
And crossed twenty-five miles of desert
To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?
Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.
Being by Eireann Lorsung
A letter is holy. A story
is holy hands reaching out into the world.
Birds come home
across distance I can't conceive
and live in their bodies.
Ash in the air. Every place I've been
is on fire with words.
One day
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains
in the heart.
What belongs
to me? I leave the world
all the time. These arms, these
fingers, this tongue, these feet,
and their bent wings. I know
it will be dirt, the prayers
now in marrow will retake
earth. I will live inside whatever flies.
Burning, the brink of all things.
Totally Like Whatever by Taylor Mali
In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not —
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest? You know?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness (that's, that's a noun, right?)
Our disarticulationosity
is just a clever sort of... what is the word I'm looking for?
... thing to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you, and
I challenge you: to speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not —
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest? You know?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness (that's, that's a noun, right?)
Our disarticulationosity
is just a clever sort of... what is the word I'm looking for?
... thing to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you, and
I challenge you: to speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
Meditation on the Word Need by Linda Rodriguez
The problem with words of emotion
is how easily meaning drains
from their fiddle-sweet sounds
and they become empty instruments.
I can say love
and mean desire to give—
open-handed, open-hearted—
or I am drawn to the light
shining from your soul—
or my life is empty without you—
or I want to run my hands
and mouth down the length of you—
or all of these at once.
Need, now, is a plain word.
I need a nail to hang this picture.
I need money to pay my bills.
I need air and light,
water and food,
shelter from storm and sun and cold.
To be healthy,
to be sane,
to survive,
I need you.
is how easily meaning drains
from their fiddle-sweet sounds
and they become empty instruments.
I can say love
and mean desire to give—
open-handed, open-hearted—
or I am drawn to the light
shining from your soul—
or my life is empty without you—
or I want to run my hands
and mouth down the length of you—
or all of these at once.
Need, now, is a plain word.
I need a nail to hang this picture.
I need money to pay my bills.
I need air and light,
water and food,
shelter from storm and sun and cold.
To be healthy,
to be sane,
to survive,
I need you.
Perpetual Motion by Tony Hoagland
In a little while I’ll be drifting up an on-ramp,
sipping coffee from a styrofoam container,
checking my gas gauge with one eye
and twisting the dial of the radio
with the fingers of my third hand,
Looking for a station I can steer to Saturn on.
It seems I have the traveling disease
again, an outbreak of that virus
celebrated by the cracked lips
of a thousand blues musicians—song
about a rooster and a traintrack,
a sunrise and a jug of cherry cherry wine.
It's the kind of perceptual confusion
that makes your loved ones into strangers,
that makes a highway look like a woman
with air conditioned arms. With a
bottomless cup of coffee for a mouth
and jewelry shaped like pay phone booths
dripping from her ears.
In a little while the radio will
almost have me convinced
that I am doing something romantic,
something to do with “freedom” and “becoming”
instead of fright and flight into
an anonymity so deep
it has no bottom,
only signs to tell you what direction
you are falling in: CHEYENNE, SEATTLE,
WICHITA, DETROIT—Do you hear me,
do you feel me moving through?
With my foot upon the gas,
between the future and the past,
I am here—
here where the desire to vanish
is stronger than the desire to appear.
sipping coffee from a styrofoam container,
checking my gas gauge with one eye
and twisting the dial of the radio
with the fingers of my third hand,
Looking for a station I can steer to Saturn on.
It seems I have the traveling disease
again, an outbreak of that virus
celebrated by the cracked lips
of a thousand blues musicians—song
about a rooster and a traintrack,
a sunrise and a jug of cherry cherry wine.
It's the kind of perceptual confusion
that makes your loved ones into strangers,
that makes a highway look like a woman
with air conditioned arms. With a
bottomless cup of coffee for a mouth
and jewelry shaped like pay phone booths
dripping from her ears.
In a little while the radio will
almost have me convinced
that I am doing something romantic,
something to do with “freedom” and “becoming”
instead of fright and flight into
an anonymity so deep
it has no bottom,
only signs to tell you what direction
you are falling in: CHEYENNE, SEATTLE,
WICHITA, DETROIT—Do you hear me,
do you feel me moving through?
With my foot upon the gas,
between the future and the past,
I am here—
here where the desire to vanish
is stronger than the desire to appear.
His Dark Apartment by by James Schuyler
Coming from the deli
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I've
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view. . . .
Now, without saying
why, you've let me go.
You don't return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. "Hasn't he told you
why?" "No, and I doubt he
ever will." Goodbye. It's
mysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They
were not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I've
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view. . . .
Now, without saying
why, you've let me go.
You don't return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. "Hasn't he told you
why?" "No, and I doubt he
ever will." Goodbye. It's
mysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They
were not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.
After All This by Richard Jackson
After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors
through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
of last night's constellations? or the storm anchored by
its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
The words that walk through my mind say only what has
already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
that isn't yours, and no death you couldn't turn into a life.
through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
of last night's constellations? or the storm anchored by
its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
The words that walk through my mind say only what has
already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
that isn't yours, and no death you couldn't turn into a life.
Various Kinds of Fire by Nate Pritts
Two times the shattering racket of the phone
ringing & each time my fish are startled
right out of themselves, gliding silent behind the glass,
disappointed, like I am, with the late night wrong numbers.
Count yourself lucky, Jack, that someone is trying
to reach her sweet midnight voice out to wherever you are
to ask you over or say she’s sorry, one thousand thousand times
sorry & she wants you back. Two times the phone rings
& then I have to put up with the phone not
ringing through the rest of the long & hollow night.
Mathematicians can’t prove that one is the loneliest number
& their order’s great sorrow is that the gods
they pray to can’t even tell us what
we already know. They’d like to sing a song
that could wake up the whole town on Christmas morning
& get us all to look under our prickly green trees
with the soft eyes of love & hope. Who knows
what amazing trinkets we’d find if only someone told us
where to look? Under my sink, dusty but proud,
a stoic fire extinguisher & already I’m starting to feel
safer. Scientists say there are various kinds of fire
but when they burn they all burn the same, a crisis
of individuality so deep & desperate that I’m stunned
speechless. In my world, we would all get our own personal flames,
color coded to match with our shoes or skin tone or
our bestest intentions, & Christmas would be every day,
there’d be presents every day & when the phone rang
it would always, always, be for you.
ringing & each time my fish are startled
right out of themselves, gliding silent behind the glass,
disappointed, like I am, with the late night wrong numbers.
Count yourself lucky, Jack, that someone is trying
to reach her sweet midnight voice out to wherever you are
to ask you over or say she’s sorry, one thousand thousand times
sorry & she wants you back. Two times the phone rings
& then I have to put up with the phone not
ringing through the rest of the long & hollow night.
Mathematicians can’t prove that one is the loneliest number
& their order’s great sorrow is that the gods
they pray to can’t even tell us what
we already know. They’d like to sing a song
that could wake up the whole town on Christmas morning
& get us all to look under our prickly green trees
with the soft eyes of love & hope. Who knows
what amazing trinkets we’d find if only someone told us
where to look? Under my sink, dusty but proud,
a stoic fire extinguisher & already I’m starting to feel
safer. Scientists say there are various kinds of fire
but when they burn they all burn the same, a crisis
of individuality so deep & desperate that I’m stunned
speechless. In my world, we would all get our own personal flames,
color coded to match with our shoes or skin tone or
our bestest intentions, & Christmas would be every day,
there’d be presents every day & when the phone rang
it would always, always, be for you.
Rain Journal: London: June 65 by Lee Harwood
sitting naked together
on the edge of the bed
drinking vodka
this my first real love scene
your body so good
your eyes sad love stars
but John
now when we're miles apart
the come-down from mountain visions
and the streets all raining
and me in the back of the shop
making free phone calls to you
what can we do?
crackling telephone wires shadow me
and this distance haunts me
and yes - i am miserable
and lost without you
whole days spent
remaking your face
the sound of your voice
the feel of your shoulder
on the edge of the bed
drinking vodka
this my first real love scene
your body so good
your eyes sad love stars
but John
now when we're miles apart
the come-down from mountain visions
and the streets all raining
and me in the back of the shop
making free phone calls to you
what can we do?
crackling telephone wires shadow me
and this distance haunts me
and yes - i am miserable
and lost without you
whole days spent
remaking your face
the sound of your voice
the feel of your shoulder
Theory of Lost Things by Keetje Kuipers
Because loneliness and beauty are inseparable, one is often
mistaken for the other. As when it becomes difficult to eat
because the tears won't stop coming though you're hungry
and the food, undoubtedly, delicious: the peas, tomatoes,
pink slice of lamb and small round dollop of white beans.
Beauty and loneliness are there in the girl you remember
seated on a bench beside the river waiting for the boy
who will kiss you as he pushes his ice-cream into your face.
They are the chainsaws scattered like orange poker chips
while the work crew takes their break beneath the last cedar,
huddled and begging its shade. Think of your recurring dream
where the bodies of the newly dead turn to diamonds
spread across the ground like tiny failed planets fallen
from the sky and then try to tell me what I say isn't true.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Hal Sirowitz
"We don't have anything in common,"
I said. "We're two completely different people.
It doesn't make sense to stay together."
But then she started to rub my penis
through my pants, & I suddenly remembered
that we both did like Indian food.
I said. "We're two completely different people.
It doesn't make sense to stay together."
But then she started to rub my penis
through my pants, & I suddenly remembered
that we both did like Indian food.
Song by Adrienne Rich
You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
All Answers to the Same Question by Charles Jensen
1. The Union Negotiator
I have a deal for you:
tonight when I sleep I'll think of you.
Of red rocks, of bull pens and spurs,
Kansas Turnpike, of Missouri,
how you'll meet me there,
a continental divide, the places where two ends meet.
My legs will make a circle around you, your waist;
my lips will have secrets to slip over yours like a paper bag.
2. The Cartographer
I am land-locked. I am Paraguay at sunset, something swallowing
the sun beyond banana trees. I heard it once drop like a bomb
into clay; no one made a sound while the echo had its way
with ears across a jungle. I am land-locked here.
There are roads out in all directions; veins, but no seaways.
I will find you in water,
I will be the way you breathe.
3. The Neurologist
How you connect these gaps between cities:
electrical charges, phone lines. I am with you in an instant
and back again, the other side of a world, a coin.
A pulse felt in fingers; you are alive, burrowed beneath folds
of flesh. The way flesh folds you inside,
the way the brain cuts corners at all costs.
4. The Performance Artist
A cup of tea
on a saucer
on the west edge of a round table.
You are the tea,
I am sipping you, I might be
the scone.
5. The Tailor
I wrapped parts of you around me for warmth
and it worked: your arm as a stole, the barrel of your chest
a place for my lips to hide, your legs as leather belt.
I drew chalk doodles on the bedsheets, you said, What for?
I said, I will stitch a knock-off from your sweat.
6. The Demolitionist
There is a moment between plunge and blast, where I live,
these seconds. Where there is perfect and quiet calm,
an exhale and a resignation, I will crumble.
This wreckage is a series of broken bricks;
remember what it was, that moment:
the world pressing in. I am a window on the fourteenth floor,
I see where the city ends, the roads failing into dust.
7. The Palm Reader
Your hand sliding down my back knows omens
when it sees them. The patterns change, but all these lines
were once people the way you and I were once people.
This compass its own rose, all directions lead back to the center,
back to your cheek, your earlobe. This palm
knows your face, where it belongs: resting there.
I have a deal for you:
tonight when I sleep I'll think of you.
Of red rocks, of bull pens and spurs,
Kansas Turnpike, of Missouri,
how you'll meet me there,
a continental divide, the places where two ends meet.
My legs will make a circle around you, your waist;
my lips will have secrets to slip over yours like a paper bag.
2. The Cartographer
I am land-locked. I am Paraguay at sunset, something swallowing
the sun beyond banana trees. I heard it once drop like a bomb
into clay; no one made a sound while the echo had its way
with ears across a jungle. I am land-locked here.
There are roads out in all directions; veins, but no seaways.
I will find you in water,
I will be the way you breathe.
3. The Neurologist
How you connect these gaps between cities:
electrical charges, phone lines. I am with you in an instant
and back again, the other side of a world, a coin.
A pulse felt in fingers; you are alive, burrowed beneath folds
of flesh. The way flesh folds you inside,
the way the brain cuts corners at all costs.
4. The Performance Artist
A cup of tea
on a saucer
on the west edge of a round table.
You are the tea,
I am sipping you, I might be
the scone.
5. The Tailor
I wrapped parts of you around me for warmth
and it worked: your arm as a stole, the barrel of your chest
a place for my lips to hide, your legs as leather belt.
I drew chalk doodles on the bedsheets, you said, What for?
I said, I will stitch a knock-off from your sweat.
6. The Demolitionist
There is a moment between plunge and blast, where I live,
these seconds. Where there is perfect and quiet calm,
an exhale and a resignation, I will crumble.
This wreckage is a series of broken bricks;
remember what it was, that moment:
the world pressing in. I am a window on the fourteenth floor,
I see where the city ends, the roads failing into dust.
7. The Palm Reader
Your hand sliding down my back knows omens
when it sees them. The patterns change, but all these lines
were once people the way you and I were once people.
This compass its own rose, all directions lead back to the center,
back to your cheek, your earlobe. This palm
knows your face, where it belongs: resting there.
Trying to Have Something Left Over by Jack Gilbert
There was a great tenderness to the sadness
when I would go there. She knew how much
I loved my wife and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end. Now I wonder
if we understood how happy those Danish
afternoons were. Most of the time we did not talk.
Often I took care of the baby while she did
housework. Changing him and making him laugh.
I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before
throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with
my mouth against the tiny ear and throw
him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up.
The only way to leave even the smallest trace.
So that all his life her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined
city of steel in America. Each time almost
remembering something maybe important that got lost.
when I would go there. She knew how much
I loved my wife and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end. Now I wonder
if we understood how happy those Danish
afternoons were. Most of the time we did not talk.
Often I took care of the baby while she did
housework. Changing him and making him laugh.
I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before
throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with
my mouth against the tiny ear and throw
him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up.
The only way to leave even the smallest trace.
So that all his life her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined
city of steel in America. Each time almost
remembering something maybe important that got lost.
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