When in doubt, keep moving

To a certain extent I am convinced
it is the making of things that might save us.

I am not saying there are certain types of lassitude
or pain, doubt or indeterminate sadness,

that will refuse to be governed. But isn’t it also true
we don’t really think when we drive the points

of ice picks through the dull silver bottoms of tin
cans— It’s like we’ve always known gravity

has the power to override numerous intentions.
This was before we even learned

of Sisyphus’ stumbling labors. Also
there are things whose rhythms dictate

their repetition, that don’t seem to need
explaining— Just watch how the cool water

from a pail runs in streams: how what’s parceled out
sieves over the still invisible, whose tendrils

have not even broken through the pericarp.
Sometimes it takes that long to soften the skin.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Ennui 2.

Trellis

Aching to find the truth behind the constant
murmuring I seemed to hear all through childhood,
I’d stumble into the kitchen or living room late
at night— unable to sleep, sensing the change

in the tenor of conversations even through walls,
the way you’d feel a drop in temperature. Stale
smoke in the air, stubs in ashtrays; glasses
half-filled or half empty; collective hush,

bodies turning, someone taking me by the hand,
leading me back to bed. Even then I knew
what I know clearly now: that the hunger
to comprehend exceeded the desire

never to be orphaned, never to feel
as a thing severed from its roots.
In school, when girls whispered to each
other or behind their hands about how I

must have been adopted, I kept my dark
counsel, stilled my stoic face even
as something in me felt like a coil
retracting more tightly into itself.

Only decades later did I learn of biology’s
complications: how the body that first carried
and housed me was different from the body
that took me in, that fed and raised me—

And it’s thanks to that time hasn’t sewn up
wounds that glint like fruit in the far
reaches of the tree: whose breath, whose kiss,
whose clasp, all accidents faithful to the last.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Parts unknown.

The house creates rain:

isn’t that the only explanation possible

for all the times someone wept, thereby
setting off a cascade of weeping? We rowed

from room to room, each in our own
teetering gondola, burnished

but breakable as glass. This is the way
the self becomes tired of weaving

bridge after bridge of sighs.
It wants to climb onto a dock

and slip into a crowd of revelers—
they’ll bear her away, dizzy

and uncertain, stumbling
into the plaza’s yellow light;

and all those wings,
reeling overhead.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Pear tree house.

Cold water wash

The first time I learned
to rub fold against fold

the dark dried plush
would not come off

easy— Take your little rags
and run them under cold water
,

I was told. Relief of lichen
on stones, sharp strop

against which petals loosened
in the iron basin. On the stoop,

green brooches of moss I broke off
for their clean, caustic smell.

 

In response to Water, water.

On a scroll, birds turn away from winter

That season
when what seems to be one
impalpable wish lifts
and begins to fly

toward repetition—
Such slight bodies, poorly dressed
for travel: no one tells them nothing
can be expected to remain the same.

Still, they go past the grey
shapes of rocks, searching for islands,
outrigger boats, houses on stilts
submerged twice a day by the tide—

They push through
each dusky layer: hills curtained
like leaves, convinced a lamp
once lit there remembers.

Orchard

Speak, don’t speak, or keep
your counsel to yourself—
see how to dress

for a few more years
your cache of aches
in neutral wrappers.

But take care
not to leach out all
the feeling— The child

must find a way
to herself among
the fruit that’s fallen

from the tree: say this
or green or gold while
cradling the bruised.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dubsmash Mouth: A Cento

I was not impressed. I did not want to be
you with a prophet’s name, posed—

Someone in an accent of seduction whispered salmon.
You plus me: the equation of initials equals love?

The room filled with smoke and sawdust:
a world of Netscape, chat rooms and Fruit by the Foot.

It is unbearable to watch, as if
humans were extra/ or already gone—

I said, “Love me better or go to hell.”
Relay a little venom to my darling:

Let her live with her boy toys and enjoy
breaking their balls again and again,/ loving none.

This circus I’m part of was built just for this.
I should have done it the other way.

[Source texts: “Heartsick,” Lynn Emanuel; “My Daguerrotype Boyfriend,” Alison Pelegrin; “The Donnellys,” Martin Dyar; “Property,” Robin Beth Schaer; “The Grain,” D. Nurske; “Here Comes the Hotstepper,” Adam Fitzgerald; “Communion,” Blas Falconer; “On a Day, in the World,” Brenda Hillman; “Misunderstandings,” Tony Hoagland; “Message to my Love,” Catullus, trans. from the Latin by Jeannine Diddle Uzzi and Jeffrey Thomson; “Practice for Being Empty,” Mary Jo Bang; “The Fatal Skin,” Peter Unwin]

World enough

Moon that passes
infinitely slow
and infinitely fast
beneath a copper-

clad shadow, I stop
the hand that holds
a ladle from banging
on the iron pot—

The truth is, I don’t
want the monster
to spit you out
of its throat

just yet.
The truth is,
I think the longer
you stay on its

rough tongue,
the longer I
might have
to figure out

these forms. There’s
so much yet to do—
Count and sort
odds and ends;

spirit a steed;
teach the rain how
to salve and close
its wounds.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Self preservation.

At the Court Psychologist’s

They sent me to the fourth floor of the old
Laperal building; I remember how my heels

clicked when I climbed the stairs. Stenciled
numbers above doors were nondescript:

some were faded, some completely merged
with the background. It turned out the woman

behind the office door I opened was both clerk
and scribe. She looked up from the remains

of her lunch before rummaging in a dented
metal cabinet for a form and a ballpen— BIC,

orange plastic carriage, blue ink— and a sheet
of typewritten questions: Take your time,

come back when you have finished your marital
history.
I paid and watched as she filled out

a receipt by hand then handed me the carbon
copy. She pointed out a blank and there I signed

my name. A nearly dry stamp pad lay open
on one side of the desk; she took my right thumb

and rolled it on its surface; then, pressing, I
affixed my mark in a box on the final page.