Poetry

I.

I think about your name in my mouth, how it excited my being when spoken for the first thousand times, how it took shape, molded my mouth in expectation, formed a pattern.

II.

A new thing becomes rote in time, the morphing of your name morphs to that pattern, the one that is not a declaration but question, an accusation of the thing I once loved to speak; it became habit, a redundancy without thrill, how a name gave way to nicknames meant to revive the act of speaking you with joy, before any legalism attached to it, a forlorn, forgotten love in vowels and consonants, of you rolling off the tongue to the delight of its sound.

III.

I fear / know / will soon speak your name with unfamiliar boldness, speak it so loud it emerges hoarse-barked in an unseen custom font, something italicized and guttural from a depth previously unknown, knowing that call will be the first to go unanswered in a string of wailing pleas as you leave unexpected, or planned, breaking the mold cast so long ago so that it is hard to form the word as once formed, embrace its implied meaning as I did at the start.

IV.

It is the same name, emanating from the same voice, meaning the same thing but not the same thing at all. 

I sit here staring at her because I am afraid to say the words that will prove to her that I am fully alive. Why must we move through life with such formalities? We are catching up over coffee, using other people’s words to talk circles around each other so that our conversation holds a kind of pathetic absurdity. I want to say I like the way the tenderness shines through your eyes and the syntax of your sentences; I like the way your frame moves when you walk so much that I wish I could fall into perfect step with it and feel it as my own. I say, “It’s good to see you,” but what I mean is that the shape and sound of her voice feel something like a weighty summer breeze, and when I’m with her I can’t help but to pay extra attention to what it means that blood is coursing through my veins. “How are you?” But what I am really wondering is if she feels this, too: does her body somehow also house an incompressible galaxy that feels all at once like an unending expanse of sky and a dark, empty room in which you can’t see your own hand in front of your face? And if it does — I want to believe that it does — why are we behaving this way? Why aren’t we planting fields of wildflowers just so we can lie in them, or holding each other constantly, or singing, loudly and without fear, because our voices and every other part of us may as well belong to each other anyway? Her hands mirror mine as we reach for our cups. Knuckles brush. “Oops,” she says.

My nine-year-old asks about the dark sides,

sides not easily seen, and if they cannot be seen

do they exit. I feel I am about to enter a black hole.

Before answering I imagine asking this didn’t

of my own father, if he saw other sides

of his son. If he bothered to look.

With internet help my son learns a myriagon

has 10,000 sides, a megagon has one billion,

and how an apeirogon is a polygon with an infinite

number of sides. Imagine that, he says.

And I do, confirming the geometry of my youth

and numbered days as an incomplete theorem,

wholly incongruent. Then he asks what form has

the most complex or interesting sides. I know this

as if were etched into my skin: The human form.

But I say – I don’t know. It is his problem to solve

now, to look with intent for complexities in things

appearing deceivingly simple and one dimensional. 

To write poetry is to keep watch

over your dwelling in a dark forest:

It isn’t often that some creature

catches your eye — most nights pass

without as much as a rustling in the trees.

But when it does, it grabs you, wrestles

you to the ground, and demands something of you.

Sometimes a few pennies, sometimes a warm meal,

and sometimes, it seems, your very life.

Sometimes it is the angel, holding you

by the hip, tenderly but with a strong grip,

and it is your great privilege to hold it tightly

and whisper sharply between your teeth,

I will not let go until you bless me.

And only when this scrappy bandit

of a creature is speaking the words over you

as you hold a knife to its throat

do you realize, as the morning sun

is finding its way through the trees, that you are staring yourself in the face.

 Snowfall’s white descent is piling up, uninterrupted,

in layers of soft milk-chalk, as if this is its burdensome

intent, to lay rule over a silenced city.

Snowflake: not the modern fragile sense, but as perfect

crystallization, the sum of every shade of color,

each one as wholly unique.

Children on the PS 118 playground know this,

know that snow is an invitation, a communal call

that bestows no rules.

A snowman gets built, rolled through dirt and debris,

patted down with wet and snot-smeared mittens.

His dirty, rock-coal eyes wink to their delight;

a smile of stones follows. A child pulls a button

from her thrift-store coat, offering what she can

to make things whole. 

there are some places that invite you to pour

yourself into them all sharp rock

and sand and cactus needles glittered

with drops of nectar where horses

are lean and wild and roam the way

they’re meant to whinnying blends

with wind and there’s a toughness

to everything the air tastes like

determination behind the hard

is sweetness the soft flesh of fruit

under a rind mica shining

in the black scales the lizard

sheds after basking at noon

the heat is a second-skin the sweat

turns to clay smeared by fingers

shaped by calluses the desert remembers

that you are 60% water and it will

suck every last drop

dry.