Chayote vines grown
under the canopy: curled
tendrils, prickled leaves
fanned large as plates
under the monsoon skies—
I miss most the fragile
blossoms of squash
whose petals sink
so easily in weights
of water, or puff up
like paper sails dropped
into a pan of heated oil.
Expectorate
To dislodge matter sludged
in the airways or lungs, or
at the base of the throat:
wracked sounds bring up thick
phlegm. On good days, clear:
only foamy spittle not tinged
with blood or trace of bile.
I stood unbidden at the second
floor window that overlooked
the bathroom as my father,
in the slow months leading
to his death, bent over the sink
—thinning hair plastered down
in the shape of an acolyte’s cap.
Ghazal with an abundance of water
So much water, why not share it?
—Margaret Hasse, “Water Sign“
In the beginning, the only thing present before water
was divided from sky on Day Two: Voice moving o’er water.
He wrote the textbook (literally) — during engineering
the River Lea, Manual of Hydrology, Beardmore water.
In drier climates people are frugal with water that’s left
after washing dishes, irrigate gardens with chore water.
Coconuts grow in the tropics. Whether green or brown they are
coveted treats, a cache of sweet liquid, hidden core water.
Lead. Vanadium. Arsenic. Uranium. Revegator
was a crock cure in 1912, snake oil treatment, ore water.
On the Zambezi River, a traveler can hear it from
forty kilometers — the Victoria Falls roar WATER!
The moon tugs on the edges of the earth’s liquid blankets, kicks
them off, pulls them back, over and over, these tides of shore water.
Tension on the Red Sea’s bank when the slaves were fleeing Egypt —
how to cross? Moses made a path, raised a staff, tore water.
Imagine if we were made of wool, if like the Wicked Witch
of the West we shrunk when we got wet, then we’d abhor water.
Little statue — supposed to be modeled after a ballet
dancer. She refused when she learned Mermaids only wore water.
Rumbling thunder. Terrifying lightning. Wind ripping tree limbs.
A mythical hammer is pounding the heavens: Thor water.
HOLD FAST or an anchor or a heart with MOTHER — sailors get
tattoos. One wanted a wave, fresh ink on shoulder, sore water.
The concrete floor hid a reservoir that filled with rain water.
The house stayed cooler in summer — clever way to store water.
Utah promises adventure of all sorts —- climb, hike and ski,
river running tours that raft the rapids, splash white Splore water.
Hydration Carrier, intimidating name for canteen.
Nalgene flask in a tactical holster pouch, Condor Water.
Children are playing out in the heat. They have a hose and a
bag of balloons, they are laughing and filling up war water.
Everyone is under some kind of pressure, from you and me
to scuba divers. But should we measure in torr or water?
Black, white, advection, hoar, window or rime — all are sorts of frost.
No matter the terminology, they all are frore water.
Dolphin Safe says the tin, a bold claim, a hope porpoises can
find their way out of nets should they swim in albacore water.
Twenty sher, forty lines, forty days, forty nights. Halima
knows Noah declined an encore, he wanted no more water.
Submariner
(Lord’s day). This morning my wife did wake me being frighted with the noise I made in my sleep, being a dream that one of our sea maisters did desire to see the St. John’s Isle of my drawing, which methought I showed him, but methought he did handle it so hard that it put me to very horrid pain; and what should this be but my cods, which after I woke were in very great pain for a good while. Which what a strange extravagant dream it was.
So to sleep again and lay long in bed, and then trimmed by the barber, and so sending Will to church, myself staid at home, hanging up in my green chamber my picture of the Soveraigne, and putting some things in order there.
So to dinner, to three more ducks and two teals, my wife and I. Then to Church, where a dull sermon, and so home, and after walking about the house awhile discoursing with my wife, I to my office there to set down something and to prepare businesses for tomorrow, having in the morning read over my vows, which through sicknesse I could not do the last Lord’s day, and not through forgetfulness or negligence, so that I hope it is no breach of my vow not to pay my forfeiture. So home, and after prayers to bed, talking long with my wife and teaching her things in astronomy.
I dream of sea
the raw and horrid cod
I dream in a green chamber
ducks and teals coursing through
I could not reach my wife
her thin astronomy
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 15 February 1662/63.
Doctrine of signatures
Up and to my office, where we met and sat all the morning, only Mr. Coventry, which I think is the first or second time he has missed since he came to the office, was forced to be absent. So home to dinner, my wife and I upon a couple of ducks, and then by coach to the Temple, where my uncle Thomas, and his sons both, and I, did meet at my cozen Roger’s and there sign and seal to an agreement. Wherein I was displeased at nothing but my cozen Roger’s insisting upon my being obliged to settle upon them as the will do all my uncle’s estate that he has left, without power of selling any for the payment of debts, but I would not yield to it without leave of selling, my Lord Sandwich himself and my cozen Thos. Pepys being judges of the necessity thereof, which was done. One thing more that troubles me was my being forced to promise to give half of what personal estate could be found more than 372l., which I reported to them, which though I do not know it to be less than what we really have found, yet he would have been glad to have been at liberty for that, but at last I did agree to it under my own handwriting on the backside of the report I did make and did give them of the estate, and have taken a copy of it upon the backside of one that I have. All being done I took the father and his son Thos. home by coach, and did pay them 30l., the arrears of the father’s annuity, and with great seeming love parted, and I presently to bed, my head akeing mightily with the hot dispute I did hold with my cozen Roger and them in the business.
ink is the first
forced temple
I sign and seal an agreement
nothing is as personal as handwriting
I make the state a copy
with great seeming art
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 14 February 1662/63.
Buttonholes
Back then I had no words
for the hands that emerged
from the pressed darkness of a crowded
movie theatre— all of us behind
the balcony rail, standing room only,
slapstick on the screen as the hero
clutched his boxer shorts and hopped
from the heat of the hornet’s nest
bulging on his behind. How did my
blouse buttons become undone?
Instinctively my elbows became
shards, became flailing
as the roars and laughter
rose in waves in the theatre.
I can write this now with no
guttering sound from my throat,
no constriction in my airways,
though sometimes the simplest
gesture I make still undresses me.
What not to give as a Valentine, according to my father
Never a pair of shoes—
that’s like kicking
your love. If you must,
or if she asks you anyway,
stuff some money bills
in each toe box.
Not lingerie—
perhaps because 20
years her senior,
even after 15 years
of marriage, he never
really got it right.
Not a vacuum cleaner—
especially not after
the Electrolux salesman
who knocked at the door
offered a demo for (he
assumed) his daughter.
In response to Via Negativa: February idyll.
February idyll
Lay very long with my wife in bed talking with great pleasure, and then rose. This morning Mr. Cole, our timber merchant, sent me five couple of ducks. Our maid Susan is very ill, and so the whole trouble of the house lies upon our maid Mary, who do it very contentedly and mighty well, but I am sorry she is forced to it.
Dined upon one couple of ducks to-day, and after dinner my wife and I by coach to Tom’s, and I to the Temple to discourse with my cozen Roger Pepys about my law business, and so back again, it being a monstrous thaw after the long great frost, so that there is no passing but by coach in the streets, and hardly that.
Took my wife home, and I to my office. Find myself pretty well but fearful of cold, and so to my office, where late upon business; Mr. Bland sitting with me, talking of my Lord Windsor’s being come home from Jamaica, unlooked-for; which makes us think that these young Lords are not fit to do any service abroad, though it is said that he could not have his health there, but hath razed a fort of the King of Spain upon Cuba, which is considerable, or said to be so, for his honour. So home to supper and to bed. This day I bought the second part of Dr. Bates’s Elenchus, which reaches to the fall of Richard, and no further, for which I am sorry. This evening my wife had a great mind to choose Valentines against to-morrow, I Mrs. Clerke, or Pierce, she Mr. Hunt or Captain Ferrers, but I would not because of getting charge both to me for mine and to them for her, which did not please her.
a couple of ducks content to eat
in the cold wind
this ache is my Valentine
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 13 February 1662/63.
Vaccination
Up and find myself pretty well, and so to the office, and there all the morning. Rose at noon and home to dinner in my green chamber, having a good fire. Thither there came my wife’s brother and brought Mary Ashwell with him, whom we find a very likely person to please us, both for person, discourse, and other qualitys. She dined with us, and after dinner went away again, being agreed to come to us about three weeks or a month hence. My wife and I well pleased with our choice, only I pray God I may be able to maintain it.
Then came an old man from Mr. Povy, to give me some advice about his experience in the stone, which I [am] beholden to him for, and was well pleased with it, his chief remedy being Castle soap in a posset.
Then in the evening to the office, late writing letters and my Journall since Saturday, and so home to supper and to bed.
the fire brought
ash with it
as God may maintain a stone
his chief remedy
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 12 February 1662/63.
Saturday Catalog
14 tinsel balls leftover in a bowl
from Christmas. A pot of mint
tea cooling on the table. Chatter
in the air like a light pull just
out of reach. Empty double shell
from cold pills taken yesterday.
Imprint of boots on melting snow.
Turmeric yarn I loop and loop
around a pair of bamboo needles.
Small dry patch of skin
on the edge of my lip,
a continent about to defect.