from the overlook wind flowers
the tufted marsh reeds
reefed by crab dunes as undertows weep
the shoreline
into uncertainty
salt scouring illusion
low clouds turn gray fraught with green mist
caught in an upswell
from heavy surf
and the rumble of distant lightening
surges like pulse
in deepening seabed churn
breath underwater bursts sand bleeds blistering
Here’s the first, if you ever see this:
what would you leave behind, stranded
in the woods, and given the option?
I anticipated pragmatic survivalism:
cutlery, tents, loose ends, a t-shirt.
The last time we saw each other,
all I remember is asking the second:
are we so sure
that the sun, just before
it climbs over the forest top in the morning,
is really anything worth rising for?
And to both
I imagine and remember you say
it’s the body you’d leave behind;
and for that we rise, too,
for the body we left
behind.
There is nothing all people do
but glide into the uneasy weight
of death. Here, too, we start:
You are eight and sun dries
off the body before you’re out of the water.
At thirteen another impermanence,
knowing fireflies are alive by the way
they blink. You place a hand over
your chest and feel it rise and tumble.
Twenty, a formal dance
with a woman and how a night
can’t swallow ballroom chandelier fire.
Finally, how stars dissolve into
water and air and dark: maybe with sound
but not anything you will hear
until it has allowed itself to catch up to you.
January
Split oak and hickory watch with stored disappointment
from under the pole barn’s rusted tin
as a year dawns too warm, uneventful.
A resurrected black and white cat
over an empty bowl shoots accusing eyes
after skipping me three nights. I atone
with milk and meat that he consumes
not with the ferocity my conscience demands,
but with dainty leisure and frequent licks
of those genteel paws I’ve seen him use
to snap the necks of doves.
Unforgiven, I watch him stroll toward the shedf
or a nap or for dessert, moving with casual indifference.
Patchy snow holds the slightest trace of his passing
destined for erasure by day’s brief sun
or for a new storm to fill.
February
Determined, I start in. I recall
as a boy that strain of muscle battling
sparkling snow so cold it squeaks under foot.
Years and miles of drifted white
distance me from that first ache.
But comforting heft of snow being moved
returns me to the white that is touching
white touching white down the hill
and around a curve in this new state
toward a road I cannot yet see.
Bend, slide, hoist, pivot,
sling the whiteness wherever—mantra
of flesh. Cold air brushes my face
as I muscle slowly forward composing
mental lists: Red wine, juice for Chance,
jugs of water, toilet paper and pasta
and beans, cracked corn for the squawking ducks
with pond ice slowly closing in, worry
over frayed wires in the well house,
electric heater running.
The cat reappears on the trail behind me.
A redbird on a bare limb watches both of us.
Bend, slide, hoist, pivot,
toss more snow, sink the blade again
into its heart, assess progress, feel warmth
on my back from slanting sun and cat’s eyes.
My eyes follow twin black lines from pole
to pole as they strain and disappear
around a last curve reaching for the road
one might almost believe lies waiting.
For Domby
soft crumbs of salted crackers peppered
across the wooden surface, where grandmother
sits at the table. red nails
grip the glossy flesh of the gala and she raises it to her lips.
I can smell the wet saltiness of the softened saltine,
she swallows – crepe skin undulates as she moves. grandmother
stands at the apple tree, scarlet gems hanging,
swaying in Alabama summers, crooked feet in the feathery grass
mash the spoiled fruit into the clay. grandmother
lays in the bed, wisps of white curl on the sheet
and crimson nails nestle in the linen – apple moons curdle
on paper and crumbs soak in the unfermented wine.
But what night isn’t like this?
I’ve always been since earliest version of life
Silent
Like the dinner table
Carrying tedious things
On my head—
When there are people talking over
And when the voices vanish,
Life comes out of my mouth
Holding a spatula
… it looks just like me
If only I knew how to cook.
I’ve experienced imaginations of the
End of the world.
So I’ve never been happy.
But I’ve been content in small spaces-
Queues, linen back seat of a Hyundai
That tiny store. North face.
A girl’s heart.
Each day I enter life at the same moment:
You alone in your room at midnight
Are in your nighties beautiful
As how people stop to watch the moon together
The night is…what again?
Listen: the slow parade of wind, the fan
And the refrigerator, humming.
The mouse in your cupboard
I have always sounded like this.
NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN
