Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
always comes later— always lies
beneath detritus or the skin of matter;
dead leaves, the fecal, the stuff composted
and left behind when the sweet new rice
or corn was gathered beneath the moon.
Those first white pearls, those little
milky teeth that brown backs bent
to husk and skim: in burlap sacks,
only their shadows trickle down to fill
the mouths that truly hunger.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
The card you picked says
it is not a good day for a gown
edged in wedding-cake pink and flowers.
Nor is it a good day for Brazilian
body waxing, camouflage suits, or a skirmish
between police commandos and rebels
in the fields of Mindanao.
In response to Via Negativa: Royal Flush.
How could I open myself
to the string that vibrates
in the wind, and stay unperturbed
by the clamor of crows
whose cries summon the cold
and the curtain of dark
for wild drifts of snow?
Tonight, ice covers the roads
and burdens the roofs of houses
in our towns and I want to look
for any trace of tenderness: a curl
escaping from a chimney, the soapy
exhaust from a laundromat’s vents,
the small wet circles with dots
for eyes and a dash for a mouth,
drawn by a child’s gloved hand
in the back of a car slowed by traffic
on the interstate.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
The spires only look
like they hold up the sky
under which they stand.
In response to Via Negativa: Roshi.
but it also travels: I see its traces
far from the hills where I was raised,
fitful light brooding over a horizon
that still has the look of a citadel,
or a rampart whose solitude is never
to be scaled. I feel its fingers
grope the edges of my night-shirt
so in my sleep I pant and sweat
like a horse heaving through fog-
threaded trails, its nose pressed
toward the rumor of heat or fire.
And in the misleading calm of daytime,
I hear its ongoing recitations: gold-
laced, a psalm on the lips of bees.
Those were the days when we could barter things
for goods we only dreamed about and glimpsed
sometimes at the black market— a bottle
of genuine Chivas Regal for a child’s
Fisher-Price nursery rhyme music box,
gold pocket watch or pair of earrings
for a set of down pillows; a crystal
punch bowl for a pair of tennis shoes,
a box of vintage prints for a block
of American cheese— I wonder what
quality of exchange would make for happiness,
now that we have landed on the moon.
In response to Via Negativa: Bequest.
Every day the light stays
a little longer, and night
does not fall so hard, so fast.
By the upstairs window where the blinds
are open, I can read till nearly suppertime:
I sought in my heart to give you
the ivory letters that say “siempre,”
“siempre,” “siempre:” garden of my agony—
But oh Federico, isn’t the exile’s heart
always a ferment of agony, always in search
of the elusive body or the heat of another clime?
Here, how quiet it is on our street: the men
who clip the grass and trim the hedges
will not return until winter is over,
and dogs do not roam the streets but howl
in the muffled recesses of living rooms
behind locked doors. Should I hear chimes
from bell towers, their music is mere
adornment to the day. Pigeons and gulls
inspect the trash bins in the alleyway.
Startled, they’ll flee— swath of their wings
the color of indeterminacy. Pine needles mark
sidewalks with their thin virgules, some strands
in puddles left after the last hard rain.
In response to Via Negativa: Night shift.
In response to Via Negativa: Geophagy.
I know the shadow cast by the thing
is not equivalent to the thing itself
and that the sheen of some pearls
does not betray their hearts of paste—
But I have also been taken aside
for such lectures too often: how in my case,
to be forthright is seen as speaking
out of turn; to ask for my due, ingratitude.
After a lifetime and a half of service, the quality
of my speech and learning is still to be held
for further scrutiny: and there is always one more
Assessment before the Welcome or Enter sign.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.