I’ve written some new poems that I really hope you will all enjoy. I had a great time writing them. Both are coming from a place where sound is the test of their truth. I hope some things resonate.
But mostly I remember the side-gate.
The busted-wheel and steel-grind sound;
Metal’s rusted speech. The bolt-latch snap
Straightening the spine, the pivot of the shoulder,
Heft of the hip pressing up in
And the cold-bone twist in the tongue
Of the hand. You shook when it opened,
Celebrated when the hinge wheeled, the gate
Swung wide, and my dad disappeared
And appeared again, wheeling a trash can
Down the drive, the plastic tread-clatter,
The lid-chatter and then stutter a moment
When tilted back and eased off the curb’s edge;
And then he levered it into place
Again, high-palmed his left hand flat,
Forced pressure where the gate and wall met,
Drove his right hand back, and the bolt set.
These days I write them to myself.
A whole language of old habit.
To my body, I say, ‘You’re beautiful;
Shaped like the hole a star leaves
If it dies.’ Vast, unimaginable, impossible
Gravity so dense you can’t fathom
What made it. Or conceived it. Opened it
Like curious hoods slid off the eyes
When a priest prays. Love letters
Written to a world in question,
The deep no place close to the heart.
Off center, attention balanced with wonder
Weighs the limit of color,
‘Are these eyes deep-ocean enough,
Day-sky enough, to be endless?’
I welcome your thoughts!