Month: August 2012

Froth like salt encrusting the edges of the claw-footed bathtub, tendrils of hair on the margins of the beige tile floor— Remember, years ago in that first apartment, coming back from a trip to find a section of pipe sticking out of the wall? The neighbors said they heard the water rushing, saw the tell-tale gush spilling out the crack beneath the front door. Thank goodness there was no carpet— only stains on the wood down the length of the hallway floor. That winter, the child made repeated trips to the third floor balcony, trying to understand Galileo’s experiment with falling bodies. Feather and stone, feather and stone. Then a little swirl of turquoise trapped inside a glass marble, accelerating through the frosty air alongside the neon-yellow tennis ball. The hand-held timer clicked as they hit the ground. When I enter a room I can usually tell who has been there before: unwashed cups in the sink, damp towels on the hook; fingernail clippings more slender than grains of rice, scattered around the trash basket. The musty smell of bodies that might have lain too long in the dark.

In response to Via Negativa: Toenail paring.

Out with my daughter: in a blur of window shopping, we see autumn’s gold; persimmons,
muscats, rust browns— soon mirrored outside, for already the season is shifting.

Summer’s warm skins are sloughing off. Whose chill blade comes nearer? Just as one
issue’s resolved, another appears. Reason can hardly keep up with such shifting.

Listen to this work in two parts— opening with a melodic center, followed by fourteen
famous variations. Each section addresses the theme, even while visibly modulating.

Who has fingers of tensile strength, a heart fierce as a beast’s, the touch of sentiment
light as wings? Expressive declensions demand sacrifice: go deeper than technical shifting.

Five overripe figs remain in the cooler— their purply-green skins like tight sweaters
unraveling. Split one along a seam: sweet lesion slicked by the tongue’s shifting.

The heavy film of dust on each window sill accuses me of neglect: the days have been
languid— we’ve worshipped them like heathens. Chill mornings foretell a shifting.

Come love— Wind stirs the leaves and rain starts its preludes. The world tonight is prismed
with water. A raging flood is not like a Venetian canal, with slender boats gently tilting.

In response to small stone (127).

Tell me I’m lucid, says Josephine on the phone. Tell me my mind hasn’t gone. Tell me my speech is clear and that I make sense to you. I picture her on her hospital bed, trying to squeeze a rubber ball with her limp left hand. In sixth grade, during lunch or recess, we used to sit, books in hand, on a grassy knoll at the edge of the school grounds— away from the surveillance of nuns. To our left, a two-storey house with peeling paint, where music and art were taught— And in one room there, a gas oven and large work table where a sister worked with one helper to bake the Sacramental bread, the altar bread, the body of Christ, the host. Sometimes, when they felt generous, they gave us the lattices left behind after they punched circles smaller than cookies on thin sheets of dough; we ate them— unblessed— with our Coke. Just beyond, a row of latrines by the barbed wire fence. We held our breath coming over the path, past the overgrowth twined with morning-glories. There are shooting pains in my fingers, she says; and pins and needles down my side, all along my left foot. I tell her this should be a good sign: There is feeling left; and, Do you remember how we said we wanted to go to Bath? Think of how jolly that will be. Outside, the rain that has fallen all night now glistens on the grass.

In response to Morning Porch and small stone (126).

“cursor is Latin: not one who curses
…but one who runs” ~ D. Bonta

And after the floodwaters receded, a few steps away
from the fountain of the oldest university on the other
side of the world, a giant catfish was found: its rough-

sleek back the color of slate, its bloodied whiskers
stiffening as the sun returned. There was no
sign of the dove coming back with a flag of green,

no olive branches spreading their arms in the middle
of a field. From windows of makeshift shelters,
the stricken looked out upon the city’s mud-

slicked streets. Like odd-shaped pieces of bread,
roofs of houses float upon the waters. The heads
of the gathered are too many to count.

In response to Via Negativa: Cursor.