Via Negativa

The woman in the cafe wearing red lipstick that matches her red boatneck sweater under a grey raincoat says, The poet is someone who is more a voice overheard, not speaking directly. Not spoken to, of, for. If I hold my head like this, if I hold my head perfectly still, if I hold my head aslant. There is a whiff of a voice that curls from the next table like a wisp of cigarette smoke, though smoking has been banned from restaurants and other such public places. Slide a white porcelain cup filled with hot coffee across the oily film of the counter. Run a fingernail across the velvet-covered upholstery and everything is still there: summer’s burnt caramel and diesel, morning’s toast; sriracha, lemon drop, partly sucked licorice whip. Above the curtains I can watch the sun move through a sky shorn of wildness, which is what some might mean when they say untrammeled. She is right, then. About lyric being a form of lilting paraphrase. Shorthand written in pencil, never ink. Code produced by the faithful stenographer. Careful. A stroke in the wrong place makes unintended meaning. But more, also. If it is spare, it prepares for tenderness. At least, the promise of a listening.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dawn is a blanket of quiet: a few hours yet before the man rises to take up his work. He will ride his bike down the trail in the cold, his feet shod in sandals. For now there is mystery in the heart of this silence, and silence in the frozen fields where all the birds who are one bird sow and harvest grain in one night while he sleeps the sleep of one near despair. You know that story— where task after impossible task is given, where the stakes are raised a little higher each time: count each pearl of sugar before it dissolves in the rain; turn one lock of hair into a spangle of gold. As if to see if (or how) one might rise to the occasion. Their wings make no sound; not even streaked with snow, their color matches the indigo leaves through which they manifest. What wages will he give them? All the birds who are one bird want to be found. He will follow them to their roost high up in the tree. This is the part of the story where a price will be collected. Where something will change.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Always, there are things afoot in the brush of a dream. If I turn in my sleep, it is because I am made fitful and rousable by the crackling of twigs. The moon lies too on its side; only one cheek sticks out of the inky coverlet. Its sheen is pockmarked calcium: the long flank of a bone, the inside of a scalloped shell, the surface of a dart board on one wall of a bar where no one mouths words like transcendent or renown. Sometimes I forget what I came here for. But there are things that must be observed, like ceremony. Amulets to be positioned, so they face a certain direction. A way to walk, finding compromise despite the elusiveness of balance. Bitter cold swirls down into little cups, all in jewel colors. Serve up one more before the establishment closes. Play one more song as I struggle into my coat and trudge the long way home.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

her first cellphone chain letter: This
January is very special! There are 5
Sundays and 5 Mondays in 1 single

will make u happy. I got her multi-
part text shortly before New Year’s eve,
along with a p.s. about remembering

to eat tomatoes and broccoli and not
stress out too much, to help my liver
heal— And now I realize I’ve let 3

full days pass without doing anything
about these instructions. On one hand,
she’s always been the optimistic

though slightly superstitious sort;
and on the other, she’s never been
one to shy away from buckle-down-

hard-work. She had carpenters tear up
the floorboards in our living room,
because the grain of the wood flowed

in a vertical direction, certainly
taking all good fortune out the door.
More than a couple of times, when I

was a child, I watched from bed
as she sat night after night with pins
in her mouth and a tangle of stitches

before her, seed pearls, satin, and rick-
rack, sewing a trousseau and outfits
for an entire bridal entourage.

She texts me often nowadays, saying she
goes to church and prays she’ll find a buyer
for our old home, so she can come and live

with me. She remembers her grand-
daughter here, from the last time she
came for a visit and my child was still

in pre-school; how she arrived at the tail
end of summer and marveled as leaves changed
to rich bronze colors of ball gowns

in fall; how disappointed she was her visa
extension request was denied before there
was even enough snow to cover the grass.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.