from “There Are Things to Be Said”
Here where the poem becomes
ladders again,
the little girl returned with candy
& a nearly on her lips
—Joshua Marie Wilkinson,
Lug Your Careless Body Out of the Careful Dusk
empty haunt; inlet
A Long Road Never Takes Us
Fish poke the surface, entice
ripples to hoard the shore, release,
hoard again. The light shifts
everything here. Bug spray in my hair,
hummingbird at the picnic table, the clouds
lulling under their transformative bellies—
there has always and never been this—
longing of a mind carried in a body
here. The sun touches my shoulder, old friends
gathering at one of the lake’s many mouths
luring all senses; caught. The wash of waves,
sectioned and small, so persistent: the body
functioning without my consent.
I spent my whole life neglecting the lap
in my ears, half listening out of body
of water; drowning in my own fluid-filled spaces.
The kayaker’s need of water’s drift: my need
to witness. Infinite rhythms we share
and scavenge. The crows scale the Ponderosas
tip to tip—games in birds’ eyes. I want to believe
a long road never takes us. We are led
with wings and tympani and slick wet
inside and out. The canoe wears its name
Old Town— red and passionate on the bank;
footprints trail away and to: abandon
casts no reflection in late summer’s glow.
Five months out of winter’s gait
empty will haunt this inlet again. An unknown
tune from the boy behind me. Hums still
as his grandfather baits his line; I might know
how, escapes him. Silence and toil. The ever sway
of small legs on a bench—reaching.
At Last Summer Let Go
The leaves in descent yellow
behind your back. Mystery
in the senses we ignore. Caught
just out of reach: the balloon,
string-less and wind swept forgets. We
open-palmed, stars paint galaxies
at the back of our pupils. Collection
until shutter. To undo the heavens
this brain harbors with guilt
cage and key in constant turn, a habitué
of adorning everything with wings.
Sacrament
Before tolls deepen the landscape,
the handshakes, the sorry stitching
in furrowed brows, the church settles
& you hear the steeple sigh. Air steps
closer to you, like a child approaches,
hesitant, question on her lips. To grow here—
a town no bigger than a thumb, you tasted
the Body & licked your teeth after wine.
What you’ve done & undone
for sacrament. As a child you chanted
the Nicene Creed, while you undressed
a boy across from you with fervid pupils
& tingles between your thighs. Confirmation
liturgy commensal of body & blood: faith
in the pastor’s lack of telepathy. Innocence
laired in your temporal lobe, along with lust
& palms in sweat, aware of both.
You return to rows of slotted boxes;
parishioners’’ names: Cleveland; Lettow; Grimes—
small spaces of keeping. Places defined
by brood & lineage. Your fingers trail openings
& fall into hollow drum, drum. Your name
once aperture, an invitation; vow. Distance &
years untie the knot of place to you. Unbound
between aisles of pews, you spectator
arrive at The Last Supper, heavy frame in dip
offsets the scene. Your eyes swallow you
back to the kitchen table, to each stroke
of your mother’s hand, outlined gently; changing
brushes; capped colors labeled 1-11; a guided
masterpiece. Grandma Evelyn peering over shoulder;
unction in a simple squeeze, “A fine addition
to any home”. Home: four letters burnt
into the underside of each rib; vestige
drug with us, round & round. Dizzying affair.
Are we called—how instinct of V
dwells in the goose? Are we called home
ventricles feeding heart? O, duel system
circulating us. These bells, someday
will be yours. These bells
already yours. & home is a small round lid
paint drying inside. & with water
so elemental, discovery & rediscovery:
carillon batons & pedals play
by ghosts & echoes of ghosts.
Caught in Diastole
Mist exhales the foothills—up and over saturates, dissipates
and lilacs and moist; twigs and pods strewn: this becoming under other
held in a gentle roll. Brontide in the lightening flash mimics
the cardiac cycle—here again, we caught in diastole
filling, filling, until our walls cave us, change our shape,
require we purge the hoard. The body knows forgiveness
in the senses: odorant molecules of rain carry
promises in the glomerulus; our eyes in dance. Jealous
sky gathers and gathers, dilation keeps us
longing for—elements imbibing until…elements