Running Stitch

"I cannot remember the last time I gave some-
                                body
                my weight." She says.

Because the body betrays us in its fragile
                                tendencies;
                the kneecap pushed so

slightly out of place, the uncomfortable
                                bend
                almost elegant.

Your dancer limbs locked the wheel-
                                chair wheels
                with a grace we only dreamt

about. Sewn strands and tendons
                                tend to
                atrophy. They can only be

cut, stretched, and re-stitched–anatomical seam-
                                -stressing.
                "I am a canvas now."

The long wait in waiting
                                rooms
                transitioned us to mourning

the loss of your leg. No,
                                not loss–
                it is still there, but caged.

January

(Another influence poem, this time from Louise Glück.)

The misting of dusk becomes
the ice of morning; the grace
becomes the graceless.

My friend the tree outside has given
up; she was fooled, I think,
but cannot speak to verify.

Between herself and the air,
something changed.
She wanted to run her fingers
through it; now they are caged.
We must not give up
as she has.

Above the fallen fingers,
above the hand and broken limb,
the brilliance of that life becomes
the graceless trunk.

Wander around her:
it is much easier to diagnose the dead.

From within the hand's
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness

my friend the power line uncoils:
she is on fire this morning.

Walk Softly

There is a moment,
after the climax,
after the revelation

and betrayal,
the resolution,
after the credits
have slid past,
your face shifting
in the shifting light;

our lips tire
of telling
and our hands
talk only tip-toes.

The skin of your spine is
an ice skating rink
that weight will splinter.

There is a danger in us.

Imitation, Trees

(An imitation poem in the style of Lucie Brock-Broido after reading The Master Letters)

The taste of a one-day autumn is that
Of road salt, crisp smoke; there

Is a you & a me & a me & the season
Surrendering to frost. Something red is falling

From your branches, gathering. I am not
Inhabited like you, but neither am I bored

By worms or beetles mulching channels
Through us–I am bereft of writhing

Things. Would that I could writhe. Your leaves–
I'm sure–pile differently from beneath. We are losing

Track of the one-day Autumns cut short,
salt scattered; I do not remember

The first bite taken at your roots–Quickly!
Cut yourself in half & count the rings.

The Art of Destroying Things on Purpose

Some sounds
are indicative
of harm.

A wasp's wings
could never hum
a lullaby,

a chainsaw
is incapable
of building.

But other sounds
like to fool you:
your heart skips

when the phone
rings, and drops
when answered;

the angry buzz
of a tattoo gun
paints beautifully.

(Starting Over, day 2. Via readwritepoem.org)

Saturation

Watching ladders
of light climb,
brighten, fade
on the wall:
an old mop
and its bucket
of water, both
too saturated
with old messes
to clean anything.

We only move
the dirt around
when we move
together, but
the streaks
are moist
and new
for now,
and it is
enough.

(Starting Over, day 1. Via readwritepoem.org)

In Poetry, the Body

Write bare bones;
make the skeleton dance.

Then add flesh, remembering
that we are simple machines,
hinges, levers, pulleys, joints;

wrap them gently with something
scarred and beautiful. Skin holds
every memory. Touch it, beautiful
and ugly both. Wrap them gently.

The blood should flow unseen,
present and powerful. if it must
bleed, let it do so enough to run
a vivid stroke, then scab, knit,
and scar; remembered, smooth.

Then peel. First skin from muscle;
this is not the dry skin of an onion.
It sticks, clings. Strip the elegant
from the mechanical in ragged lines.

Slabs of muscle slip easier
from bone. Cut the strings, let
them dangle, unburdened,

write bones like windchimes
on a breezeless day.

Cefalu'

1. The driver's booming voice

I am the only one to exit

When buses are off duty
but still have passengers
the light up sign
says "deposito"

I am
like sand
deposited


2. There is still a two-
hour lunch break,
from times when lunch
meant family, kissing
your children hello, three
courses, four glasses
of wine to get through
the evening shift,
and back again.

Now lunch means
standing outside
your closed down shop,
wandering, cursing,
cigarettes, the news,
the ocean, four
glasses of wine
to get through
the evening shift.

There are no children.
The population
is shrinking.


3. A man fishing.
Four sidelong glances.

Two nods,
one in greeting
one in farewell.

An hour conversing
with the waves.

No fish caught.
Horizon, lightning.
Resignation.

A cigarette.
Stairs into the sea.

Our Bones are Set (revision)

Our bones that once
stacked tightly, now
are set with pins
and plates against
each other.

The desire to break
apart again
is staunched,
as bleeding,
by pressure:

These nails
keep us steady,
but drive through us; we
occasionally splinter
with the blows.

To Vanish:

On the day that Craig Arnold disappeared
rain was falling in Portland, and the radio
informed us that he had not returned
to the remote japanese village from which
he had departed to hike around a volcano.
The spot was 30 seconds long. The search
continued for three days, then was given up.
A scrap of clothing was found by a tourist
three weeks later, on the lip of the caldera.

In all likelihood Mr. Arnold's bones
were swallowed by the underbrush
but there is a chance that he has joined
the ranks of vanished souls whose
disappearances raise little suspicion,
whose post-mortem sightings will not
be claimed. No tabloids will list "the top five
most likely places to spot Craig Arnold."

(1. The volcano of Kuchinoerabujima, walking
the rim, looking for the scrap of shirt
left as a guide to find home.)

At most, the radio might run another 30 seconds
of commemoration after a frantic call
is forwarded to the local news.

(2. A sculpture museum, hiding among
the statues of Persephone, eyeing
the marble pomegranate hungrily.)

The family will be called,
relatives nearby contacted,
his name will be spoken again.

(3. Vegas)

The sightings are never the same,
always from afar, and usually
far-fetched enough to be true.

(4. Hitchhiking down the autobahn with a sign
that says "poetry or bust!" Everyone swears
they saw someone else pick him up.)

And so we wait to hear where
he will resurface. And slowly
his bones disappear.

(5. A small used bookstore in some big city
where everyone knows the meaning of "ekphrasis"
and tells you that every poet eventually vanishes.)