Digging Out (for Richard Kirkwood)

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.

The Molecular Level

With crutches and ropes, 

her brothers helped her 

scale the steeple of 

Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge. 

Swinging past the clock, 

like from flying trapeze, 

this nameless woman 

reached the cross 

and rang the lone bell. 


Around the corner, 

on Rue Sophie-Germain, 

named for that jilted 

mathematician, 

you sat drinking your coffee, 

drinking in the atmosphere, 

replying to emails, 

checking your account. 

I watched her swing 

from the steeple as you 

studied Archimedes, 

Fermat’s Last Theorem, 

the royalist Cauchy. 

I wasted time staring at her 

flight, and you read 

Recherches sur la Theorie des Surfaces 

Elastiques.


I glanced back. 

Our eyes met again as 

if never before. 

The chemical bond strengthened 

and true. 

A heteronuclear connection. 

Atom upon atom, 

we exist in the same moment. 

We exist in the same 

infinite life. 

Neither created nor 

destroyed, 

our love is elastic. 

We learn of the melting 

Blackfoot Glacier 

and Schrodinger’s equation. 

The magnetics of our 

molecular bond attracting us 

again… again.


Suddenly, the ropes break, 

the crutches fall 

to the asphalt below. 

The nameless woman 

Lands with motionless 

broken neck. 

Inconnue on the police report, 

like Sophie Germain on 

The Eiffel Tower. 

Le Figaro

 suggested her right arm 

was replaced by the scales 

and toes of a chicken, 

shrunken in her sleeve, 

reaching for her crutch. 

It was never proven 

nor was that on the official 

report. 


You laughed it off on the 

surface and on 

the molecular level.

The Low Passions

The Lord came down because God wasn’t enough. 

He lies on sodden cardboard behind bushes 

in the churchyard. Wrapped in faded red. A sleeping bag

he found or traded for. Dark stains like clouds 

before a downpour. The stone wall beside him rising, 

always rising, the edges of stone going blunt 

where the choirboy climbs. He opens his mouth,

but nothing goes in and nothing comes out.

Like the sideshow man who long ago lost

his right testicle to the crossbar of a Huffy.

He peddles the leftover pain. The stitches clipped 

a week later by his father, the fiberglass bathtub 

running with color, the puffy new scar,

the crooked look of the pitted half-sack.  

He tells me you only need one nut, and I want 

to believe him. I want to believe he can still

get it up. I want to believe he has daughters, sons, 

a grandchild on the way, a wife at home 

in a blue apron baking. But why this day-old bread 

from the dumpster, this stash of hollow bottles

in the buckthorn, this wrinkled can of Pabst?

The Lord came down because God wasn’t enough.

Because the childless man draws the bathwater

and cries. Because the choirboy never sings 

as he climbs. Because the bread has all molded

and the mouths are all open. Open to the clotting air.

Homeless, anything helps. Anything. Anything you can 

spare. God bless you, God bless you, God bless. God, 

Lord God, God God, good God, good Lord very good God.




Reprinted from The Low Passions by Anders Carlson-Wee. Copyright (c) 2019 by Anders Carlson-Wee. Used with permission of the publisher, W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved. 

Among the Storm

You build a home

among the torrents


I watch you in the deep end.

You were not born


in this storm – it hijacked

You and proliferated, raised


its children in Your lungs

to take the wind out.


A storm isn’t normally

the antithesis to wind.


A storm doesn’t normally

whitewash Tacoma, or the streets


leading from church to home

stalking Manuel Ellis


to take the wind out of his lungs.

A storm doesn’t normally


bring riots, though maybe storms should,

or maybe there shouldn’t have to be


a storm

for us to riot.


In this storm, hail cannons

down like rubber bullets


while forest fires

pepper spray the West.


A thrown water bottle

becomes a line of riot shields


charging into umbrella defenses.

The storm comes from all directions now and


my dog, my house, my street,

my 11th and Pine, my Seattle


does not sleep at night.

How can this be place for home?


You teach me about trees:

how they exchange nitrogen


among root networks,

nourishing one another.


How when danger pierces bark,

chemicals communicate hostility,


floating through the air as if

a smoke signal became pheromones.


How the sturdiest Sitka spruces

stand tall amongst forest fires


and remain alive.


We can do more than simply remain


You tell me. You reach a hand to me

and with gracious gritty grip


pull me along. You take me

to the beach and make me cake.


You tell me this storm is in all of us,

but we can take shelter


in each other.

So we build a home


in a gale-less storm

on this obsidian


edge of time.

We fashion a hull of


thick steel and a Sitka

spruce mast. People


are windless, but You puff

our canvas sails with Your stormed lungs.


We puzzle over 5000 pieces of

I love you


into a painting of a family

with a dog who’s too cute.


Together, we do more

than simply remain


in the space You created for

our home among the storm.

Four Steps to Disappearing

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.

Beusselstraße

It stands high along the tracks,

Skinny and awkward,

Three stories,

Graffiti-covered,

Half-timbered in a city of stucco and brick.


It stands high above the long carriages,

The wagonnen, headed to Hamburg, Hannover, Bremen.


Who lives here now?

An old station man, using his cane to get up the stairs?

Ten spiders, observing ancient railway schedules?

A teenager from Poland?


A boy brushes his teeth before his date, spits off the bridge over the moving train.

He will stop at the grocery store on the way to the apartment,

Buying peaches, olives, an avocado.


He walks south now, toward the river.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN