Cynicism

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
My student was talking about a film 
he described as terrible— about terrible

human beings and how they did terrible things
to each other, with no relief at the end. Not

even a shot panning away from the broken window-
pane and into the shadowed hills, not even the noises

animals make in the woods, magnified by the dark. Why
even does it exist, he asked? why do people watch it?

A movie can be like a poem, and a poem like a movie.
Nested images, personae, mood, some kind of setting.

A poem can seem to have several movies nested inside
it. But even the bleakest poem couldn't have complete

cynicism: otherwise, why was it turned into a poem?
Someone took all the koi out of the small pools

by the entrance to a battleship— nine guns, three
main gun turrets— now turned into a museum.

We recall seeing the flash of orange and gold
scales as fish darted through moss-green water.

Chained by two anchors, the ship almost doesn't
seem connected to something as terrible as war.

Deep Cleaning

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
 
Behind the small folding bookshelf
in the guest room, I find three
canvasses. Each one bears traces
of the start of a project— landscape,
portrait, indeterminate still life;
none of them complete beyond a first
thin layer. I must have seen things
then that beckoned as finished visions,
but that now I must conjure if I want
to complete them. Not to make
a copy of the thing, but to manifest
the heat that cut through the distance—
wheel of yellow, bowl teeming with fruit;
girl blowing a profusion of dandelion
seeds into the wide open sky.

The Ministry of Anti-Corruption

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Such an office has been established and forgotten  
and revived too many times to count. Smaller variants
exist— Whistleblower Hotline, Consumer Complaint
Department, Ombudsman's Office, Ethics Committee.
It's a ministry because it's almost a vocation
to which you swear a vow: to transparency and
accountability, freedom of speech and of the press,
observation of due process, establishment of sanctions.
But it's growing a global network, staffed with
the compassionate and civic-minded. They are not
allowed to take bribes nor award ghost contracts
while looking the other way. They will visit families
whose dwellings have been swallowed by flood, and
document the absence of well-built dikes, dams,
and bridges despite billboards along the highway
lauding progressive infrastructure. They cause
warrants to be issued for officials and businessmen,
and demand scrutiny of financial records. After
following the money, it should become clear who
enabled and who signed off on, who claimed they were
only following orders while tucking millions into bank
accounts. They receive reports leaking secret
conversations about the launching of torpedos against
small sailing vessels. They gather in the hundreds,
blocking garages before illegal enforcement units
can get into their vehicles to make yet another raid
on ordinary civilians— the ones they've been ordered
to bring to private detention facilities whose earnings
rake in hundreds of millions a year. Sometimes they
are actual ministers: a pastor brandishing a bible
in the faces of those who dared to enter a church
with evil intent. Most times they peacefully organize
food and coat drives; they chant or play music,
hold up signs on the periphery of courthouses.

The Mills of the Gods

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
The former leader of a small 
southeast Asian nation sits
in a jail cell awaiting trial
at the Hague. Well-appointed,
with its own kitchenette, but
jail nontheless. When the petition
for his interim release is denied,
his followers weep and embrace
carboard standees. Elsewhere,
families of victims in his "war
on drugs" follow the news by video
link, and clap. They clutch pictures
to their chests too— of husbands
and children felled by bullets
fired by death squads, masked
and riding tandem on motorcycles.

Kindling

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
At the beginning of the holiday 
season, the 12 Days of Christmas
plates come out of their Williams-
Sonoma box shaped like a rope
tension drum. The song's a counting
ritual: it starts with a bird
in a fruit tree, adds on increments
the sum of which supposedly equates
to "true love:" turtledoves and
domesticated fowl, golden rings,
a jubilee of animal and human
antics and pastoral labor. It's also
a counting down to the end of another
year— how we've moved through space
and time, how we sense the dark
slip beyond the hills as we reach
for a spark to kindle the broken twigs
in the hearth; how the flame sputters
as if catching its breath, before growing
brighter and pouring out of itself.

Marimo

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Though they have the same plush, velvety look,
Marimo aren’t moss but a rare form of algae found

in freshwater lakes. Scientists say they're among
the first plants to have moved from water to land

over 500 million years ago, even outliving
dinosaurs. No wonder they manage to stay alive

for over a hundred years, though kept in glass bowls
filled with water and a bed of smooth stones instead

of out in the wild. The need for tangible softness
must be a trait passed on from one generation

to the next: somehow, part of the strategy for
surviving extremity— the open hand allowing

for flow in ways that a clenched fist
would not. Take kissing— mouth to mouth

contact not only for the purpose of passing
or masticating food— and how there’s evidence

neanderthals and humans kissed. And moss
spores taken into space, with little to no direct

contact with light, not only surviving but
germinating after returning to earth.

More than the Leaving

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
I was drinking my coffee when I felt
a familiar sensation— do you know it?
Like being naked but not exactly,
just because I forgot to put on
my favorite earrings. At the same time,
I remembered where I'd left them:
on the counter in my hotel room just
before I checked out at 3 in the morning,
anxious about Thanksgiving traffic and lines.
They were a pair of gold-colored, simple
circlets mounted on a stud. I am good
at remembering, but after the moment I was
supposed to remember. Maybe 6 years ago now,
I bought those earrings in the Portland
airport coming back from a writing conference.
33 years ago I remember waking my daughters
so they could see me off at my departure
from another airport. I did not have the heart
to wake the youngest, a toddler, from the depths
of heavy, blissful sleep. I hope they remember
things like this, more than the leaving.


Trousseau

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
 
I heard someone say torch, and recalled
my friend's story about how, when her sister

was married, her new husband gathered all
her underwear and threw it into the fire.

This was supposed to show how his passion
for her meant all other loves before him

were to be incinerated. Some words eclipse
others in the wake of their arrival.

She received new ones, cotton and silk,
handpicked by him. There are other ways

in which partnerships become proclamations—
a binding with rings, an annexation with names.

What did our mothers surrender besides what fell
away like leaves, like trees stripped of bark.

Time Travel

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
While I can still make out the figures in the grainy
print, I call them again to the surface. Life
is long, so love might outlast the distance.

You bend over me seated in a shiny red tricycle,
eager for the novelty of this kind of motion. Life
is long, and I'm eager to speed up the distance.

I still feel your hand on my back. A cool morning
in our northern hills, you in a slim sheath skirt. Life's
long fringes in the pines, love a hazy plume in the distance.

Daughter-mother-daughter: links in a chain that keeps
going. I can go faster, but must pedal harder. Life
is long; perhaps love will outlast the distance.

Every now and then my sealed heart's pried open—
a tomb I want to walk out of, toward the light. Life
is long, promising love will outlast the distance.

Hydraulics

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Under the surface—
Teeming channels and stations
Subterranean, subcutaneous

Liquids moving in
confined spaces, under pressure
transmitting equally in all directions

Our hearts have four chambers—
Seastars have no heart at all
Octopi have three and copper blood

Zebrafish can mend
their broken hearts in two months
The wood frog shuts down its heart in winter