Poems new and old
I was a motheater, loved
Bugs and other caterpillars.
I planted a bunch of
Pills but none of them
Grew. I sought transit across
A star, pinprick on its
Glaring tongue.
After I suggested baking soda
You used instead my cologne
To wash your hair. We
Traded old photos from the fridge
For blue skies reflected on future lakes.
Querido,
If when my
Brow no longer rises
Like milk
In steepest tea
Unbarb the wire,
Steady the skreeking gate,
Prescribe my final burn.
A universe of
eponymous tuber.
I've got limbs stemming
out from me, from
my muscles in every
impossible way. Am
I to climb with them? Or are
they for others to do the climbing?
He was in town. Town’s good. Even though the road between us gurgles like a heavy humidifier. “He wasn’t in town with you?” Memory, there’s a clue. I loved him then, even though I knew better. I loved him more, even more than the weather. Gravity fails us all. Our senses are stuck to the wall. What came first wasn’t even a letter.
In blue cramped spaces Mother gives birth with no assistance. The child immediately dreams of a blockchain tomorrow. Serrated rain falls like hurricane pills rejected by heaven. He said he could’ve washed over and by now I guess he has. If only we all just fell like the rain. Or with it. Or because of it.
Earliest morning. A train calls in the distance. Dim light reflects off water. The sound of geese in the sunrise of our tangled hair.
Year of the dumpster, beached on the street like a malevolent whale. Year of the winking stop sign, of constantly yellow lights. 2019, year of the home run, of rain, of record heat, of polar vortex. Year of the tweetstorm. Of walls and rejections. Year of running water, of family, of learning another language, of learning how not to take things for granted. Year of choking to death on vomit in a hotel room, year of death of talent by suicide.
Year of unchecked mergers. Year of the podcast, of restaurants closing, of buildings that will be empty until they collapse. Year of body rags cut from old clothes, of rubbing alcohol, of witch hazel. Year of CBD. Of bird versus bunny, year of more and more mass shootings and no one doing anything about it.
Year of groggy mornings, of bags under my eyes, of sleeping by myself, of writing poems, of hiding. Year of swimming laps, of AirBnB, of appreciating a picnic table in the shade in the park. Year of compound interest, of Jupiter and Scorpius, of the opossum, of the narwhal tusk, of the whip-poor-will's song. Year of playing tennis again with my brother. Year of cuñado, year of farmer’s markets. Year of next year, if I’m lucky, again...
To continue with 2019...
Transportation, from here. I am to be embossed. I am to be onboarded. Research project, thesis: No Illegal Volunteering. I could use all available verbs if only I'd remember their names. Campus tour, drone survey. An orchestra strikes up a concert in a neighborhood night. While I was sleeping y'all raked leaves like mad conductors by moonlight.
Ice melt, glacier swim. Take your kids into foreign policy day. Naive holiday, PTS electorate. Oh, their suits are so clean. Their teeth are so white. As if they were getting paid to show them.
Let it fall, let it fall like rain. Like votes, like natural causes. Well ... his heart stopped. Sometimes they just do. Eventually sometimes is now. Liver spots under my eyelids. No one knows what they look like but me.
Get thee to bed. You got Russia in your head. Arctic circle, Missouri highway, Ozark river. Where campfires burn in the distance, some see a constellation.
Rain,
Light rain tonight,
Missouri farm.
After the neighbors have helped,
After they have asked after us
Who are growing up here
Six days a year.
Mice droppings on divan.
Recluse on back porch, ghost-brown.
Dust and dauber carcasse.
Somehow the lights still work.
Weeds, stickers, tag-alongs.
Jimson weed and bramble...
1. They said
Jupiter's moons
Would be visible
Through binoculars
In June but I
Never saw them
Because I never
Even looked.
2. Last weekend,
final day of June.
I was walking Hugo
when I noticed a misfit
Star piggybacking Scorpius. I
thought: that doesn't
Look right. Could that be—
...What follows is my translation—a flawed translation—of part of a Pablo Neruda poem...
We do the tired math of eggs
in the land between the lands.
We don't remember their happiness,
we forget their dentures.
They sleep the sugared sleep
on extrapolated divans.
That they would know certain stones,
carrying light and secrets,
bearing a greenish hue.
What is the reason not to exist?
Where are we carrying ourselves to, otherwise?
A good change of clothes
and shoes and socks of work
Introduce a little land
to give our love new kisses.
Drink up the clean air
from now until you rule.
When I went from broom to broom
guided only by my hat
I didn't find anyone who knew the way.
They were all worried.
They were trying to sell things
no one had ever asked for
until it was clear
that we'd played out our sunrise.
And half the sky, the whole ramp
conformed to the song.
And spoke with all the people,
even with those who were picketing.
We forgot how quickly
our teeth lost their enamel.
We forgot about our fevers,
our slew of minor ailments.
We had a newfound prowess
as we turned our mother's earth.
I gave praise
to steel you confidence.
You gave welcome
to feel me love.
Rooster sang crow
to share us morning.
Eugene broke fast
so we'd build house.
Water washed clean
so we felt ourselves.
Earth sprang mountain
to keepsafe sun.
Wood took flame
so we'd have fire.
Wind gave owl wing
and we had night.
There is a lone goose on a vanishing dock. The lakewater is up. The floating dock’s platform is gone from sight but a railing moored to the dock is still above the surface, barely. Like the railing, the goose appears to be standing on water. As the dock dips further the goose has three options: sink, swim, or fly.
Rattle across the water, washboard blues and white streak through the air. Look out minnows! It’s the kingfisher, flying from weeping willow to vanishing dock. It finds purchase on the railing, stuck there like a feathered magnet.
Saturday morning, more rain overnight, the dock is further submerged but inches below the surface the platform still remains. The heron knew it was there, trust in its water landing. In the fog, the heron keeps watch o’er the lake.
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