Saturday, April 22, 2017
The nest above the garage belongs to a finch.
Mine is the savaged arm below the pillow —
raised veins, petechiae — dozens.
Ghost today, memory tomorrow,
age deals this unexpected sanction
of intimate loss, the body’s lurch
apart. Oh, for a package tour of Egypt,
vector idly picked to intercept
this slapdash, two-bit lurch
toward derivatives I don’t sanction —
rude death, wait for tomorrow.
Impelled to nurture another dozen
(lice & worms fattening the nestlings’ pillow)
each spring this blithe finch.
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
|Esther, John, Carol, David|
The whistle — descending third — meant home.
How wonderfully far that familiar sound
traveled at dusk to children bicycling round
suburban streets yellow with ragweed bloom.
Tonto, Geronimo, wannabe hounds of hell
played hide & seek in half-built houses
pressing on pastures of last-chance cows
fated to fuel Atlanta’s urban swell.
Up to the school, down to the pond, a zoom
around a corner to the corner store
where no one had coins so our gang
leader stole. We seemed impossibly far
when dinnertime tolled & pronto — hunger pangs.
Oh! There were mothers, whistling us home.
Driving home I shake at what I’ve done —
handfuls of grapes prised from their stems,
their tart flesh juiced between my teeth,
the bottle of cold beer a welcome balm.
Four ticks the women struggled to release,
troublesome barbs lodged in skin,
the imminent threat of Lyme Disease an old
refrain, fables victims told, the flood
of horror — leeches fastened to tender skin.
Sleep continues to be my best release —
dark, cotton, arm under pillow, balm
until I wake at midnight, heart in my teeth,
slung from the highest trunk, branch, stem.
Guilty, I am. Oh for this dream to be done!
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Collecting sea glass, high tide,
I raced toward the rocks, away from swash
until I forgot. The swash rose past my knees.
I stayed on my feet, I swayed, I waited, then peered
at backwash for minuscule bits
of orange & red, green & blue, pearlescent
white, shells worn thin as mica, rocks
blotched & streaked, fossiled & pitted, hollowed
& cored. Next I knew a streaking wave
sideswiped a second seeker, bloodied
on gravel-strewn sand, muscled by forces
beyond her ken, she rued her salty camera
& phone. We come from Nevada, she said,
we have nothing like this at home.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
|Jorie Graham [WSJ]|
Orpheus and Eurydice
by Jorie Graham
Up ahead, I know, he felt it stirring in himself already, the glance,
the darting thing in the pile of rocks,
already in him, there, shiny in the rubble, hissing Did you want to remain
completely unharmed? —
the point-of-view darting in him, shiny head in the ash-heap,
hissing Once upon a time, and then Turn now darling give me that look,
that perfect shot, give me that place where I’m erased. . . .
The thing, he must have wondered, could it be put to rest, there, in the glance,
could it lie back down into the dustiness, giving its outline up?
When we turn to them — limbs, fields, expanses of dust called meadow and avenue —
will they be freed then to slip back in?
Because you see he could not be married to it anymore, this field with minutes in it
called woman, its presence in him the thing called
future — could not be married to it anymore, expanse tugging his mind out into it,
tugging the wanting-to-finish out.
What he dreamed of was this road (as he walked on it), this dustiness,
but without their steps on it, their prints, without
What she dreamed, as she watched him turning with the bend in the road (can you
understand this?) — what she dreamed
was of disappearing into the seen
not of disappearing, lord, into the real —
And yes she could feel it in him already, up ahead, that wanting-to-turn-and-
by his glance,
sealing the edges down,
saying I know you from somewhere darling, don’t I,
saying You’re the kind of woman who etcetera —
(Now the cypress are swaying) (Now the lake in the distance)
(Now the view-from-above, the aerial attack of do you
now the glance reaching her shoreline wanting only to be recalled,
now the glance reaching her shoreline wanting only to be taken in,
(somewhere the castle above the river)
(somewhere you holding this piece of paper)
(what will you do next?) (— feel it beginning?)
now she’s raising her eyes, as if pulled from above,
now she’s looking back into it, into the poison the beginning,
giving herself to it, looking back into the eyes,
feeling the dry soft grass beneath her feet for the first time now the mind
looking into that which sets the _________ in motion and seeing in there
a doorway open nothing on either side
(a slight wind now around them, three notes from up the hill)
through which morning creeps and the first true notes —
For they were deep in the earth and what is possible swiftly took hold.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
The silver mike in a soundproof booth
overlooks side-by-side turntables
screwed to a raw plywood bench.
A tight space. While one song plays
to the live feed I unsleeve a fresh
LP, guide the spindle through
the center hole. My anti-static brush
sweeps the grooves. I choose the cut, set
the needle, rotate round to the first sound,
& as one last note fades, I flip
a knob to swap the feed, toggle a switch
to start the new song, rate my segue.
One-girl DJ, now & again
I name the artists, the bands. Mostly I spin.