Via Negativa

Do you believe in ghosts?
Before the rain, I snipped the heads
of brittle roses off their stalks,
then dug a hole in the earth for a handful
of herbs. A white moth clung to a trellis
and trembled the grid of wires. When the rain
began to fall in earnest, the wraiths of all
my loves and unresolved afflictions pursued me
indoors, then lay down with me upon the pillows.
They fingered my wrists and called me Darling,
Sweetheart. They told me of green ribbons
of snakes that flattened their ribcages to sail
through endless miles beneath the canopy.
They said, The body is a rivet. I stroked
their napes and whispered into their
orphaned ears, praying they would be kind.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

another— For instance, the moon
that has just cleared the trees;
and in the water, those mottled
tracings of rust and copper.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Why can’t it be light I’d

like it to be light not

light like that light

coming in the window warm

morning at last but light

like a billowing unseen

without any sail

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

They come over the water into the harbor
as crowds jostle for a view from the ferry,
tall ships from across the world— enactment
of some yearly ritual of crossing that dates

back to a world when kings and statesmen of new
empires leaned over tentative maps unscrolled on
library tables. Their pale, excited fingers traced
the zig-zag journey across months, across a chain

of inked islands to some vaster expanse where the sun
might, conceivably, never have to set— And their
sailors: how different might they have been, really,
from these young men in optic white from Brazil,

Colombia, Ecuador, standing at close attention at the foot
of each gangplank as tourists nervously find their way
up or down, one foothold at a time? Those conquests
might now go under the name of history: the ones

that launched Magallanes’ ships toward some idea
of the spice islands, so that today, every grocery
store in the northern hemisphere has whole shelves
listing with fenugreek, coriander, and anise,

and salts in shades that range from white to pink
and grey— the ones that gave the archipelago
of my dreams and birth, the name of a Spanish king.
Sailors climb the masts and fly the festive

banners and the crests signifying their own
native origins. And after all, this is still
about territory: the way each boat’s carefully
berthed, the way we move from one to another

as though to test or bring tribute, knowing
the waters that slap against each hull can be more
jealously coveted— for oil, for nutrient life,
for passage to safeguard into that uncertain future.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

The 280 pound sophomore says, during a pause in the workshop, I go to school, I go to my part time job, I sleep. Sometimes I play games on my computer. Then I do it all over again.

All morning in the Triangle, the workers are setting up tarp, small platforms, brochure holders. Tall ships will ride into the harbor tomorrow, white sails unfurled.

Out of the blue, the landlady writes to ask what the backyard looks like now that the cypress trees have been cut down.

I snap a photo and hours later, notice that moss has grown between the bricks on the walk. There is no error here.

In a book I come across the words romantic dogs, penned in the margins. The handwriting is unfamiliar.

Dust filters down in the late afternoon sunlight. The blinds need cleaning.

I cannot remember how many funeral parlors there were between the City Hall and the church.

A stand of pampas grass gave me my first paper cut. Green against gravel. And then the surprising streak of blood.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.