After Sunset, Black

After sunset, black

moves over last

wet light of April.

I remember you

against me, turning.

Ellis has a mole

on his lower lip, right

in the middle of it, as if

his lip had been birthing a baby

rat and died during labor--

the tiny bald head forever

stuck in red exit, never able

to breathe; to thank Ellis

for giving it life; to share

a cigarette with Ellis at rush hour;

to love Ellis

as only a son can love his father;

to comb Ellis' hair each morning before

leaving to scour the city for food, for

a penny or two to bring back to

Ellis' crumbling hands;

to coo molten lullabies

into his ears as Ellis falls

asleep each night on 42nd street;

to hold and heave his body

into the concrete,

as the world slowly tips

on its axis, so Ellis won't slip

off the edge,

that POP of flesh hitting air,

that brief shhhh

just before the scream.

Dear Reader

I greeted my neighbor on the street,

Hello! I said, jubilantly.

Her head down, she nodded,

acknowledging me, yet

saying nothing, probably thinking

any number of things. Perhaps she

was late, or unable to commit

to a single reply, or maybe

she was simply cold

on this late-February day,

rushing to get out of it.

I wonder at her, as one wonders

at the Mona Lisa -- what does she want

from us, if not nothing at all?

What is the meaning of a poem

such as this, you'll ask, and I'll say

think of it as an emotion

immortalized in stone, a statue

at which you may stare and stare

and never quite understand what

you are supposed to feel.

Do not be afraid, dear reader,

to be left wondering.

In the Age of Divorce and Disaster

Yes, darling,

I would love to

share a glass of red with you,

and I can think of nothing

sweeter than to join you

for a romp in the bathtub.

Of course, darling,

I'll spend the night with you,

and every night after this one --

let us make love

all over this city, and when

we've fucked the city dry,

let us flee to the country

to spread our seeds and tend

them 'til they're ripe as

your plum tongue upon

my swollen nipples.

For you see,

darling, we have no choice now

but to show our fellow human beings

that in this age of divorce

and disaster, not every glass

shatters, not every tub drains.

Dear Lionel

1

If you would just

send the sunshine through

the skylight of our breakfast nook, eat

your eggs slowly and let the yolks

harvest their seeds deep inside

your belly, open your mouth

and let the crops fall

out, into my hands--

then I will glue egg shells

to your cheeks and call you my little chicken.

2

After breakfast, we'll move

into the living room where the flag hangs

covering the fire place and we'll light

a fire behind it to honor ourselves, our

country, and all the illegal immigrants

we've so graciously welcomed

into our land of the free and the

money. When the flag goes up

in flames, we'll raise our arms and circle

around the Oriental rug together and don't

you forget this Lionel: we'll hold each other

there, for as long as it takes to beat this

thing down -- the questionable ideal

that we're going to be okay one day.

3

When our living room catches fire

with the flag,

your new sneakers

will melt into the rug,

but I won't leave you,

Lionel, I won't.

I'll hold you through this,

however it may end.

The Departure

There, in the middle

of the overflowing street,

stands the Jasminewala –

He’s just trying to get by

on strings of tiny, white flowers,

whose fragrance alone

can intoxicate all soulful human beings

enough to altogether forget about

their looming departure –

I'm the only white in a sea of brown,

like his jasmine, still

he spots me –

With a grandiose smile

and inquiring eyes,

he raises his dying jewels to the night;

and I answer him,

with a smile to match,

raising my still-warm parcel of soggy bhel –

As he blazes a trail to me through

the sky’s tears and the petrol fumes,

a rainbow of trust connects us –

Tonight, he won’t be hungry,

and tomorrow,

I will give brown blossoms to the wind –

Alburg, '94

It's that smell of dead fish

mixed with wet dog and fried eggs

swirling on the crest of a pitiful wave

in the wake of a 1980s Boston Whaler

put in the water only yesterday

in anticipation of a summer made up of whole days

spent hunting for sea glass

and tending to your pet turtle in its cage

made of a giant blue buoy, cut open at the top

lined with moss and filled with rocks.

And your brother crouches

on the dock, his fishing pole in hand

patiently waiting for a bite.

And your sister suns herself

in the hammock, every now and then

demanding that you bring her a soda or

rub sunblock on her back.

And the rip of the curses inside

cuts between your mother and father and stings

your ears as it seeps through

the cracks of the jagged window in the front door

that you accidentally smashed

with your whiffle-ball bat

on your way out to the neighborhood game

under the lights

at the pump house last night.

It's that taste of sweet blood in your mouth

when you fall

for the nineteenth time

teaching yourself

how to ride a bike

on the dirt road leading

toward and away

from it all.

Spring

Your breath smells

of warm milk, your breast,

of lilacs in bloom,

just before the heat

becomes too much

for such a delicate flower

to live through.

Loving

After Denise Levertov

The heat in baring skin

so white it seems

each summer the first summer.

The breath lifting, the tongue

shivering at the touch

each day the first day.

His bright eyes, color-blind

so deceived so

easy to fool, dreamily

move along my body

toe to brow. I hide

my blue eyes inside the darkness.

Funeral

Before you know what fear really is

you must catch yourself

in a split-second gaze

with the screaming yellow eyes

of the young buck in the middle of the road

that your father is about to hit.

The cold Suburban, a black

frosted night, the slip of the tires

the stick of the brakes.

You must jump

at your mother's gasp and

grab your brother's arm

with a grip so tight you can feel

his heart dumping blood into his veins.

You must hear the vibration

of animal meeting machine and

you must try to understand

what it's like

to be on the other side of the bumper.

You must stare at the blood

growing from its nose --

imprint it in your mind.

You must eat the venison stew

your mother made with reluctance.

You must eat it for weeks.

Before you can know the power of fear,

you must let

the buck's steady breath

warm your hands.

Bears-In-The-Air

Forget about bombs,

let's drop bears on Afghanistan. Yes,

I do believe the Pentagon is on

to something here. Bin Laden,

honey, you best pray

your porridge ain't "just right" today.

It, Again

1

If you write it down

you remember it.

If you write it down

you get rid of it.

Well, which is it?

I'm begging you,

2

Poet, please choose!

To need

to get rid of it

is to remember it,

and to remember it

3

rids you not.

If it is writ,

it is rid from your brain,

but forever remembered

4

on the page.

So, the page

becomes your beloved

memory, or,

if it torments you,

5

your enemy.

The only way to wage

which is which

is to rip up the page

on which it is writ

and begin it

6

again. Over

and over again.

Kellifer Jones

When it is time

Kellifer Jones will go to bed

That's what her father called her

With a big old smile

She is in love with people

My Kellifer Jones

But even better

How she loves to be alone

Alone with her books

Alone with her plants

Kellifer Jones and I

Go driving when we feel like it

We go where we've never been

Or to town and back again

Too late, or was it too soon?

Did I find you, or you me?

Immortal

No need for doctors now, you and I

will heal ourselves by this fire,

the snow talking

pretty outside.

And when these flames

grow to love us,

we'll leave our bodies

here to dry,

a mother's sigh within the wind,

that tiny music.

monsoon reverie

hand-washed clothing

draped like fainted women

vulnerable

on a line under the ceiling fan

the sound of the rains

roaring crowds at a festival

wet socks drying on the wet sill

wind sweeping through the open window

chiding my papers to come out and play

Saturday afternoon in late September

just me

and my clothes

summer

1 i bathe myself

in the kitchen sink

because there is no bathtub.

i stare at the ceiling

as the knots in the wood

turn into faces

of my favorite cartoon characters.

2 out at the pump house

some kids are playing

whiffle ball and i still

don't know how to ride a bike.

3 i hunt sea glass. i have

just about every color there is

except red. a motor boat goes by

a girl is water-skiing off the back

i don't know how to do that either.

4 the shed is filled with fishing gear

and smells like shed.

on the inside of the door

there are tracings and measurements

of the fish my brother and sister have caught.

5 i'm too young

to fish so i just hunt sea glass and bury

the dead as they wash up

along the shoreline.

Dear India

What can I do?

What, when every craving

is fulfilled, every daydream,

brought to life,

when every grain

of sand burns white

under Betul sunbeams,

every smile skips

like a rare gem from one

wave's crest to another?

When everyone I meet

considers hospitality

a responsibility?

What can I do

in the face of such majesty?

I've been struck

into a state of perpetual

gratitude by so many hands

in this promising land.

I kneel before you, India,

I give you my words.

It's the least I can do, for

you have made me

the luckiest.

Third Class to Chandigarh

I sit ten seats back

from the rest of them, for here,

the window scene remains stagnant,

never disappearing behind me.

The sun calmly submerges,

splashing out the moon

and some stars.

As we careen

into the deepening

shadows, the last

pinks and greens eddy

in reverse motion before my mind's eye--

it's so beautiful, and still,

everyone on this damn train

is staring at me.

I am a stranger, a foreigner,

backlit in this sultry

North-Indian eve,

but to someone out there,

I'm a mere silhouette

in the fluorescent lights

of a passing train car.

Pune, August

Like stumbling upon

a lone feather

from a sacrificed bird,

my eyes find this moment

of miles behind, floating

on the film strip that lines

the back of my memory--

And in the broken, spotty

picture, the fading colors

sink to grey,

and I can't remember

what you look like.

Broad Reach

for my father

As a yawn is contagious,

do as I do or just listen

to my voice. Let

what I say remind you

of something you've forgotten

to say or do or render

important. Let me remind you

why you go sailing

by yourself, then phone your

kids when your sails hit

broad reach. Let me show you

why you're suddenly inspired to write

poetry in your 50s, and

what it means to be proud of your father.

Dear Jesus

I've heard from several sources now

that you love me,

which is why I'm getting

a restraining order on you.

You can't just go around

loving everything that walks.

Save yourself!

Ode And Elegy I

Last night I dreamt of her,

my India, again.

Her wet reds and blues,

sacred cows lying down

in her flooding streets. Her fruit

bats and mangoes, pregnant with heat.

And in the morning I knew

it was out of my hands

because nothing ever is

the way it is when I sleep.

So fuck you, Dreams,

for fucking with me

and making me wake up

in Iowa, again.

Ode And Elegy II

There is a place I know where

I am humbled--

And it was there, by the light

of day, I sat on white steps,

conscious of my luck, in

denial of my faults,

yet thinking of nothing

in particular,

when they came--

I stared, fascinated,

as one colony of ants

lifted together,

paraded the stale, lifeless

body of a flattened gecko

up all the steps upon which I sat--

Hundreds of them,

some black, some red,

with the most

determined movements,

their impossible task

at hand, inch by inch

becoming possible--

In that moment, I loved

them all: the ants and the gecko,

the trees, the fruit bats, the steps,

my faults--

There is a place where I know

what it's like to conquer

the beast who feeds on my blood,

and how gently the dead

can be handled.

Dearest John

by Chris von Trapp

1

Dear John,

That's not your real name.

Although it could be

if you were given that name

or acted that way,

but it's really not you, it's me.

2

Dear John,

I thought you were special.

Filling the void

of the last one I lost,

but he is not you

he is him.

3

Dear John,

Rebounds never work.

Only in basketball,

or in this case,

basket case.

But that is not you

it's me.

4

Dear John,

I never wanted this to happen.

I thought we were forever

but, forever turned out to be

a really long time.

You can never go the distance

with me.

5

Dear John,

I did not mean to hurt you.

I needed you then,

but this is now.

We are not the same

as we used to be,

it is you

and me.

The Race

1

The man keeps a fox

in his freezer. The fox

is wrapped in a plastic

bag, which is wrapped

in another plastic bag,

which is neatly knotted

at the top. The fox

is small and rests

between a TV

dinner and a gallon

of mint ice cream.

Each night, the man

removes the bag

from his freezer,

unties the knot,

and lays the fox down

on his living room floor.

The man, crouching

over the fox, examines

its fur, inspects its

paws and its teeth.

After some time,

he folds the fox

into the bags,

and places it back

inside the freezer.

2

After the man has retired to bed,

Fox opens his eyes, lifts up his cold head,

crawls out of the bags and creeps 'cross the floor.

He knows the man sleeps -- he hears the man snore.

Fox sits for hours, fixed on Man's breath,

watching for changes, smelling for death.

And with the first signs of light, Fox slinks away,

back to his place beneath the ice tray.

The strange race continues just how it began:

the man and the fox and the fox and the man.

Wasn't Me

I was sitting in the air on an airplane next to a lady who smelled like hairspray and vodka. In her lap stood a tiny little toy dog, which I didn't notice until I was just reading and I got that feeling you get when you feel some eyes on you somewhere so I put down my book and I looked all around until I found that little dog making eyes at me. We looked and looked at each other and normally I don't stare but I thought, it's only a dog,

but since that day on the airplane, I've never once stared at another dog, big or small because after about a minute and a half of staring at this one, there was a blink of red light in its eyes, then a clicking sound, and then the damn dog blew up right there on the lady's lap and I thought she might turn and slap me in the face or something but no one said a word so I plucked the fur from my ginger-ale and kept on reading The Origin of Species.

The Waiting Room

Prints of barren

trees and

hot air balloons hang

on the walls

in these holes

where we're stuck-- living

like pigs in bowls

of wilted petals,

wasting evenings writing

poems, feeding

on pills and jellied salmon

rubbing our nipples right down

to the bone--

we tug at furniture that is screwed

to the floor, we are bored, so

flipping through a few pages,

we cross and uncross our legs, yawn,

then we blink and we're gone.

Summer Was

Summer was

drifting away,

always interested

in someone else.