Secondhand

“But don’t we live on in what we’ve left behind?
…Don’t these become
a kind of museum of the afterlife?” ~ Linda Pastan

Tightly packed bales of clothing ship
off to mostly third world countries,
overseas— our castoffs, excesses,

last season’s outfits no longer hip;
or items now too small for rapidly
growing children— they’ll sell

for less but others will rejoice
at how much life there still is
in a well-soled boot, the good

waxed canvas of a coat with which
to spurn the everlasting rain;
and every now and then the flash

of a label someone recognizes has some
glittery value from these our worlds,
which shed before they’ve even cooled

their overlay of perishing desires.

The Question

Noon wraps itself around me,
and I can’t help but think

of miles of concertina wire,
or hedges of unkempt bramble

going on into the distance.
Every now and then an animal—

unmoving, blown open, on the open
road. Here, small stands a chance

at breaking through an opening.
You bring to it all you have.

Carrion Crow

It makes no sound
because it barely can—

Tearer, purifier, skirting
the edge of the sky

and the barn’s weathered
erosion into itself.

Following the path
to the water, we sense

where a deer has disappeared:
brittle bend of dry sedge,

rippled footprint, the afternoon’s
hum drawn through a perforated nostril.

Incommensurate

In the spice drawer is a bottle
nearly empty— tiny red flakes

of dried pepper from the hills
where, just a few days ago,

a colorless burning descended
through the air. In the beds

of emergency vehicles,
did the children whose heads

loll as if sightless
smell what was coming?

Don’t talk about pity.
Don’t talk about shock

or outrage. Don’t flutter
your flag at poor half-mast.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Bombing for peace.

Polysomnography

The doctor explains the machine
which tracks the breath in sleep,
how it measures the levels of oxygen
delivered to the brain— For instance,
there is the moon above the treetops,
a tufted dandelion head in the grass.
Each silver spindle wants nothing
more than to float to the moon
but the cushion holds it tight,
requires a longer exhalation
or a sudden gust for release.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

City of the Dead

The streets are labyrinth
and filled with blood, red

strings you could trace from one
shanty to another. In its tower,

you never see the bull;
you only hear its rabid

bellowing, its orders
not to maim but kill. You see

under a street lamp’s glow
dark sentinels pause

on motorbikes to check
the magazines of pistols.

Who can sleep in the heat
and humid darkness, knowing

the shapes of funeral birds dangle
from every doorknob, looking in?

Eating near midnight

Two orange sections left on a plate—
Thank you for remembering my need
for something resembling that bright
shimmer on the ceiling, centipede
with too many legs carrying
the morning away.

Nacre

How can I sign cards now with The world
is your oyster
or The future is yours

when by all accounts the world is daily going
and gone to the dogs, i.e. the one per cent

who own most of it all anyway but are bent
on squeezing every last resource into their vaults?

We got a catalog in the mail once, addressed
to the former resident: glossy page spreads

of smoked fish, pearls of black caviar. Who
eats this way? For whom are such price tags

a trifle, nothing? The grit lining the shell
grows lustrous. We dredge the bottom swells.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Response to Descartes.

Storm Evening: Encounter

We’re at a fundraiser for the preschool
our daughter attended fifteen years ago,

when flash flood and tornado warnings
come up. As we prepare to leave it’s pouring

sheets of rain, and through the waxy air
we hear dark rips of thunder and lightning.

In the vestibule, a woman tells two
blond-plaited children to wait, get ready

to bolt when she brings the car around;
then sprints through the wet parking lot.

My husband does the same thing. As we peer
through the blur of rain and headlights,

an older man I don’t know comes up from behind;
silver-haired, laughing, he gestures toward me,

shaking his keys slightly: Do you want to bring
my car around?
And all of a sudden I’m not certain

how to respond; don’t know if it’s another one
of those moments brought on by the color of my hair

or my skin; don’t know if it’s harmless, nothing.
But if it’s really nothing then why am I thinking

there could be something behind that odd way he holds
the keys aloft, the way the question could be dismissed

as a joke if it weren’t also familiar as command? The most
I muster is a bravura Sure, but only if you bring mine

around first. But by then the lights are swerving closer
so we have to push ourselves forward, out into the open.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Silence lover.