Recently in 1997 Category
They wait, inchoate,
for their turn to travel
to the oasis of uterus; there a poem
can be fertilized with the persistence of
one thought, one event.
Poems grow in the moist jungle, feed
on the floor of the lush vegetation of womb,
nurtured by the temperate climate.
Poems are pushed out into the world.
Sometimes they are premature
and suffer the lethargy of lungs,
fragmentary organs unable
to breathe on their own
Sometimes poems are healthy,
tap the maternal instinct,
bring joy to those who hold them close.
Sometimes poems are stillborn.
The most painful of poems
are those half-finished,
stuck in the birthing canal,
lodged in squeezing darkness.
These poems howl at me from the inside,
keep me awake at night with their muffled wailing.
for their turn to travel
to the oasis of uterus; there a poem
can be fertilized with the persistence of
one thought, one event.
Poems grow in the moist jungle, feed
on the floor of the lush vegetation of womb,
nurtured by the temperate climate.
Poems are pushed out into the world.
Sometimes they are premature
and suffer the lethargy of lungs,
fragmentary organs unable
to breathe on their own
Sometimes poems are healthy,
tap the maternal instinct,
bring joy to those who hold them close.
Sometimes poems are stillborn.
The most painful of poems
are those half-finished,
stuck in the birthing canal,
lodged in squeezing darkness.
These poems howl at me from the inside,
keep me awake at night with their muffled wailing.
The food has grown cold.
Our first gelid words could have been sliced
into wedges, served as an apathetic appetizer.
All heat has been smothered by our distant discourse.
Sporadic phrases spurt from our throats in guttural chokes,
land on our plates as limp lettuce leaves.
We have brought this up before in
regurgitated conversation.
My intensity has cooled to lukewarm. Your wit
has wilted into sarcasm. We once filled evenings
with cooking and fervent conversation. Now
all that we can discuss is the thermal dynamics of french fries
and wonder how they can get so cold so fast.
Our first gelid words could have been sliced
into wedges, served as an apathetic appetizer.
All heat has been smothered by our distant discourse.
Sporadic phrases spurt from our throats in guttural chokes,
land on our plates as limp lettuce leaves.
We have brought this up before in
regurgitated conversation.
My intensity has cooled to lukewarm. Your wit
has wilted into sarcasm. We once filled evenings
with cooking and fervent conversation. Now
all that we can discuss is the thermal dynamics of french fries
and wonder how they can get so cold so fast.
Under branches that reached to the ground
with needles or snow, under the tent of
forevergreen, I made my home.
Earth or ice carpet, branch hooks for
pictures or hats or flowers plucked from
the nearby weed garden.
I took bowls and spoons
from my mother's kitchen to make my
culinary creations from bark, sap, and pieces
of cedar hedge, mixing bits of greenery
with puddlewater or snow melted between
unmittened hands.
After lunch, after washing bowls and spoons,
I settled down in snow or soil, looked up
the tall brown trunk, through cracks
in the green-roof. Saw sunlight rain cloud snow
and twilight. And an infiniteness
that always included me.
The scent of earth and pine always places
me under that tree, in my greenspace. Reminds
me of beautiful aloneness and losing spoons.
with needles or snow, under the tent of
forevergreen, I made my home.
Earth or ice carpet, branch hooks for
pictures or hats or flowers plucked from
the nearby weed garden.
I took bowls and spoons
from my mother's kitchen to make my
culinary creations from bark, sap, and pieces
of cedar hedge, mixing bits of greenery
with puddlewater or snow melted between
unmittened hands.
After lunch, after washing bowls and spoons,
I settled down in snow or soil, looked up
the tall brown trunk, through cracks
in the green-roof. Saw sunlight rain cloud snow
and twilight. And an infiniteness
that always included me.
The scent of earth and pine always places
me under that tree, in my greenspace. Reminds
me of beautiful aloneness and losing spoons.
They wear secrets on their matte faces
smoothed on subtly into a makeup mask. I saw them
pass traces of stories on linen napkins,
on handkerchiefs, saw them brush their lips against
ears, leave stories behind in russet smudges,
wipe foreheads and lips with delicate finger-strokes
then press gossip into palms,
gossip that rubs off like face powder, like lipstick--
like pollen, passed from flower to flower
from anther to stigma
the stigma of others.
smoothed on subtly into a makeup mask. I saw them
pass traces of stories on linen napkins,
on handkerchiefs, saw them brush their lips against
ears, leave stories behind in russet smudges,
wipe foreheads and lips with delicate finger-strokes
then press gossip into palms,
gossip that rubs off like face powder, like lipstick--
like pollen, passed from flower to flower
from anther to stigma
the stigma of others.
