Riding Amtrak, Cary N.C. to Alexandria VA
my eyes scan the wayside like vultures waiting to pick the bones of the dead
seeing the cruelty of trees leaning into one another because
some of us bear weight and some of us are the weight
other trees standing upright muzzle-loading rifles
or sentinels keeping the watch over ruined dreams
that pigment should make such a difference when it’s poured over skin
passing TW’s Antique Mall one erect black man standing at an angle to
an old white man leaning on a cane no eye contact
we’re in Selma but it’s not Alabama and the church always the church
or it’s the Wilson railway station where a pack of six young men idles at its side
one in an orange hoodie all in ear buds
no full employment here in Wilson while at Warren Wilson other unemployeds write
poems about these six they will never read because they can’t can’t read that is
and oh my god this country’s rotten to the core
we’re sharecropping the world bingo you lose it’s the lottery of life
this is no utopia buddy just the Great Dismal Swamp where watersnakes
spawn and no birds sing and oh gentle jesus that junkyard of cars stretches out to the
crack of doom
Hail Mary mother of god be with us now and at the hour of our death
This poem appeared in Paterson Literary Review, 2020
my eyes scan the wayside like vultures waiting to pick the bones of the dead
seeing the cruelty of trees leaning into one another because
some of us bear weight and some of us are the weight
other trees standing upright muzzle-loading rifles
or sentinels keeping the watch over ruined dreams
that pigment should make such a difference when it’s poured over skin
passing TW’s Antique Mall one erect black man standing at an angle to
an old white man leaning on a cane no eye contact
we’re in Selma but it’s not Alabama and the church always the church
or it’s the Wilson railway station where a pack of six young men idles at its side
one in an orange hoodie all in ear buds
no full employment here in Wilson while at Warren Wilson other unemployeds write
poems about these six they will never read because they can’t can’t read that is
and oh my god this country’s rotten to the core
we’re sharecropping the world bingo you lose it’s the lottery of life
this is no utopia buddy just the Great Dismal Swamp where watersnakes
spawn and no birds sing and oh gentle jesus that junkyard of cars stretches out to the
crack of doom
Hail Mary mother of god be with us now and at the hour of our death
This poem appeared in Paterson Literary Review, 2020
Counterpoint for Ella
“I didn’t mean a word I said.”
No, not a word,
for language is only
a closed system of phonemes,
except when Ella oscillates
between G and E,
words cross-pollinate.
“If I hurt you, I’m sorry.”
Your lies are like the thorns
on the yellow bush roses
you dug at the mine,
as you leave me alone
with asps and black widows.
“I didn’t mean to lose my head.”
This word or that,
sharp keys or flat,
Ink Spots or spotty ink--
we’ve been yoked
in a slow dance
for all these years.
Ella says “I’m sorry, while I say “Let’s split.”
Language has logical structures,
but that’s not poetry or love.
Poetry is when the early sun slides
in slats across the bed,
and love is when,
after her golden song ends,
you hold my hand
and our eyes remember
that last resolving chord.
Stitching a Mourning Garment
--for Carl Evar Ropp, 1931-1932
She chose from the fabrics in her bureau,
bolts of chenille furred like caterpillars,
gold-figured brocades, woolen baizes,
watered silks as soft as birds’ wings.
She measured the yards hand to nose
pinked the bombazine’s edges—no time
to finish her seams—matched notches
on the breast, wound her bobbin in black.
The edges of her mind unraveled
her foot pumping the treadle harder, faster
needle flashing in and out of the cloth
her thoughts pulsing in her head.
In the crib by her bed—still, silent
no gasping cry or shallow breath
no small form shivering, convulsing--
only a lily, his raiment bathed in light.
This poem appeared in Emrys journal in Spring 2020
“I didn’t mean a word I said.”
No, not a word,
for language is only
a closed system of phonemes,
except when Ella oscillates
between G and E,
words cross-pollinate.
“If I hurt you, I’m sorry.”
Your lies are like the thorns
on the yellow bush roses
you dug at the mine,
as you leave me alone
with asps and black widows.
“I didn’t mean to lose my head.”
This word or that,
sharp keys or flat,
Ink Spots or spotty ink--
we’ve been yoked
in a slow dance
for all these years.
Ella says “I’m sorry, while I say “Let’s split.”
Language has logical structures,
but that’s not poetry or love.
Poetry is when the early sun slides
in slats across the bed,
and love is when,
after her golden song ends,
you hold my hand
and our eyes remember
that last resolving chord.
Stitching a Mourning Garment
--for Carl Evar Ropp, 1931-1932
She chose from the fabrics in her bureau,
bolts of chenille furred like caterpillars,
gold-figured brocades, woolen baizes,
watered silks as soft as birds’ wings.
She measured the yards hand to nose
pinked the bombazine’s edges—no time
to finish her seams—matched notches
on the breast, wound her bobbin in black.
The edges of her mind unraveled
her foot pumping the treadle harder, faster
needle flashing in and out of the cloth
her thoughts pulsing in her head.
In the crib by her bed—still, silent
no gasping cry or shallow breath
no small form shivering, convulsing--
only a lily, his raiment bathed in light.
This poem appeared in Emrys journal in Spring 2020
Apple Time
A dividing line sunders before from after,
a before-the-apple-time from a time
that no one wants to come. But come it must.
And after apple time, resignation,
picking up the broken earthen shards,
the pottery strewn in fragments
along a burning orchard floor,
piecing them in the only possible fashion,
praying that the pot will hold
against the days to come and come again,
each morning a cantus firmus
singing anger to despair.
Ever after I cannot remember
one single before-the-apple day,
one single green day
when I loved beyond tree fruit
my shining garden Eden.
A dividing line sunders before from after,
a before-the-apple-time from a time
that no one wants to come. But come it must.
And after apple time, resignation,
picking up the broken earthen shards,
the pottery strewn in fragments
along a burning orchard floor,
piecing them in the only possible fashion,
praying that the pot will hold
against the days to come and come again,
each morning a cantus firmus
singing anger to despair.
Ever after I cannot remember
one single before-the-apple day,
one single green day
when I loved beyond tree fruit
my shining garden Eden.
Stewards of the Dead
I watch them circle above me, wings
like open pages curving slightly
from the spine, a kettle of royalty
attended by a page, a lone hawk
hoping for scraps from their carrion,
a bit of flesh or shredded muscle.
A wake of them undertakes to clean
the world of waste, their wings caressing
leaf molds as they feast on the fallen,
leaving a heap of knackered bones,
odd tufts of fur for the devil’s cloak.
In Brazilian myth, vultures’ wings
blocked the light, until the hero captured
their king. Man and bird compromised:
divide the world in two, sun and moon
Gods of darkness, death, and terror, take pity.
Spare me another hour, a jeweled sunrise--
keep me from the tower of darkness,
for I have not yet finished with words.
This poem appeared in Atlanta Review in 2016
I watch them circle above me, wings
like open pages curving slightly
from the spine, a kettle of royalty
attended by a page, a lone hawk
hoping for scraps from their carrion,
a bit of flesh or shredded muscle.
A wake of them undertakes to clean
the world of waste, their wings caressing
leaf molds as they feast on the fallen,
leaving a heap of knackered bones,
odd tufts of fur for the devil’s cloak.
In Brazilian myth, vultures’ wings
blocked the light, until the hero captured
their king. Man and bird compromised:
divide the world in two, sun and moon
Gods of darkness, death, and terror, take pity.
Spare me another hour, a jeweled sunrise--
keep me from the tower of darkness,
for I have not yet finished with words.
This poem appeared in Atlanta Review in 2016
Setting an Intention for My Practice II
Think about setting an intention
for your practice, my equable yoga
instructor announces. But intention
implies a control that I lack. I’m
a rudderless craft moving with the
wind’s whim, a sere grape leaf
gravity pulls downward, nothing
more. So I go inward, searching
for tangible signs of purpose,
billboards marked “This Way,”
or maybe, “It’s All for Sale.”
I don’t have a twitter account,
or I’d look to see what tectonic
shifts are moving the general
population. In general, I have
no idea of where I am going.
I suppose I know where I’ve been,
otherwise why such memories,
the silver tintypes, those golden
multitudinous sands.
There’s space in my practice, even
on this narrow orange flowered mat,
me taking control of me. That’s
my best hope, that I can grab
the wheel of my fate and turn it
toward an eternity of water colored
tomorrows. But the way is perilous,
the obstacles impossible to imagine,
the mountain stark, the seas blood hot.
Think about setting an intention
for your practice, my equable yoga
instructor announces. But intention
implies a control that I lack. I’m
a rudderless craft moving with the
wind’s whim, a sere grape leaf
gravity pulls downward, nothing
more. So I go inward, searching
for tangible signs of purpose,
billboards marked “This Way,”
or maybe, “It’s All for Sale.”
I don’t have a twitter account,
or I’d look to see what tectonic
shifts are moving the general
population. In general, I have
no idea of where I am going.
I suppose I know where I’ve been,
otherwise why such memories,
the silver tintypes, those golden
multitudinous sands.
There’s space in my practice, even
on this narrow orange flowered mat,
me taking control of me. That’s
my best hope, that I can grab
the wheel of my fate and turn it
toward an eternity of water colored
tomorrows. But the way is perilous,
the obstacles impossible to imagine,
the mountain stark, the seas blood hot.