Love Poem #9:
3/18/99, 3 AM
My hands still shake when I smoke, my dear, and here
on the chapel steps my fingers move faster: waiting, spelling, shifting,
carefully contoured. There’s nothing beneath my coat but my shirt.
There’s nothing moving through my pen but ink. For two years
I forgot about balconies, drive-in movies, and sentimental snail mail.
The cars pass quickly here. The arch of my back presses against
the chapel’s monolithic concealing concrete. In several hours,
parishioners will enter to find pews facing forward, illuminated
by colored light, sacred texts, and ardent voices. I imagine
you singing, the gestures of your face, lips meeting and parting . My hands
shake when I remember the exact spelling of your name, the absurdity of
late night phone calls. This pen was yours, and I hold it still, at 3 AM.
Feather-Stood.
From across this
harrowed land,
flapping in rhythmic
gusts of dust,
she flies. No
time-imbedded creature
for certain,
she has not the sense
of a carrier pigeon.
"Come," I
whisper, "Take." And no amount
of waiting
will disenchant her
glory,
that black and furious
potency
coupled with a
storybook grace. Come,
most gentle and
consuming earth-mother,
walk me along as if we
walk schoolbound;
guide me to a park at
nightfall.
If a heart can beat in
tone,
in the gasping smile of
a fantastic hue,
it can through her
alone.
"Welcome," I
call, "Taste what you might."
And she might, full of
flavor,
with color to
distinguish fire
from shadow; with
warmth,
to extingush the sun at
morning.
My eyes scan the skies,
the horizon moves for
hours,
in focus.
The light that lights
her
will be vivid, a
carnival relaxing
the brow of the swain,
and the hands of the
timid.
Despite the promise of
her rosy blaze,
and the anticipation of
fabulous
giving wings,
the planted standing of
my
firm feet
grows no less
difficult.
Tanka
Photographs of farmland
From father’s days in
grade school
Remind me of books
by John Steinbeck. The
paper
feels so delicate, so
close.
Broth
My favorite flavor of
Campbell’s soup
is Chicken and Stars,
those hundreds of tiny
stars
in a microwave bowl, on
a wooden tray
above the blue carpet,
on a Saturday night.
Jeremy tries to annoy
with his slurp-slurping
of the starry spoon,
but I just laugh with a grilled cheese chuckle.
It’s either the MSG,
the flickering TV,
or that brotherly bond
tonight renewed
against a common
babysitter.
She sits on a stool in
the kitchen.
She speaks
into the telephone with
an excited voice
to someone old,
probably a boyfriend.
Some of the thin broth
splashes onto the
carpet.
I let Jeremy change the
channels;
he says I can finish
the rest
of his soup.
Galapagos
Snow slowed everything,
today, on street strips and train
trails.
The Weather Man
says it could pile up to two feet
(but I hope for four)
because slow and steady wins the
race.
Everyone knows that.
The administration cancelled all
classes after two o'clock:
some administered this decision
out of a fear
(that cars and feet and pencils
wouln't care to move at University Speed),
but most, I think, were confident
that
no Tortoise could ever be wrong.
It takes all kinds, somebody said
(not me, never being pithy)
but who could help noticing
all the rabbits and mad
cap hatters racing home,
(for that mid-race rest)
non-stop but noble.
And sunk in all of it, on
a train tortoising towards
Coolidge Corner,
the wise-capped Professor Hill sat,
looking down, glancing up
(then right, to a face)
then fro, through the pop-out glass screen.
His gaze leading his mouth,
then all at once, his thoughts
repositioning his head, sliding his stare
(seldom at me, standing)
back and forth, to the dripping
rabbits, to the
empty seat, to the dirty plastic
puddles.
And all at once, dodging my
study, his eyes flew back through the
window, struggling to count
falling flakes, wanting
to word great white war poems,
his neck beating with a pulse
half the speed of mine.
At stop he stepped down
(fingers grazing the railing)
off the train, which
swiftly sped up, and I
turned, to assume his seat,
but I would not move slow enough.
The Ballade of Midnight
The night’s events were left out on
the oak floor:
A deck of cards, one wineglass cracked
full through
By careless feet passing quickly toward
the door,
For this winter night was warm. The
tipsy two
Followed sidewalk and train-tracks and
found a few
Topics to talk on: their plans for next
year.
Craig felt concerned, but Peter had no
fear,
Saying, "Let’s head back home,
to finish our wine.
I know that I have all the answers
right here,
Well stored in my head." These
words rang divine.
Young Icarus told men of how he would
soar
Away from rocky hills, to air bright
blue
With the power of height.
"That’s quite a chore,"
The men said. "Make sure that you
use strong glue,
For I’d have respect for a mortal who
flew!"
Icarus waxed prophetic, seemed not to
hear;
He spoke about physics with the voice
of a seer.
"No wings will generate such lift
as mine,
No bird will have my grace!" And
it was clear,
His lips smiled pride. Icarus was not
divine.
Like Icarus, Peter would let his
thoughts roam
As Craig tried to keep his friend’s
mind near the ground.
Midnight had passed, so the friends
returned home,
Poured two more glasses, and dealt one
more round.
Peter told jokes, and Craig laughed at
the sound
Of his friend’s drunken voice. Once
the game was done,
Peter smiled pride, though the other
had won,
And said, "Come what may, my life
will be fine."
His companion feared that the heat of
the sun
Would melt Peter’s wings. They were
men, not divine.
The most responsible path he could
choose
Led Craig forward through a life of
great worth.
Peter gave no thought to the glue he
would use.
Icarus fell to the surface of earth.