Archive for October, 2012

Somewhere

Sunday, October 21st, 2012

somewhere

 

My suspicion of you is as heavy

as a loaded gun locked

right next to a stranger’s temple

in another city somewhere

 

probably a place you nor I

have ever visited and yet talk about

as easy as we talk about the weather, drugs

or why it hurts so bad when we laugh

 

almost to the point of tears and reach

that place we cannot breathe as easy

as the day before, so we briefly hesitate as

the gun unloads in sudden smoke somewhere

Advertisements

Missing Ireland

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012

Missing Ireland

A man behind me complains

about the most expensive coffee

in town. I wonder why

he is here at all. His voice

echoes, brisk as waves off

the Ireland coast, but

carrying the local.

I order fish and chips

because I miss Ireland and

nothing here feels like it. I want

to tell the man about Ireland, about

how the cold spreads its fingers to

your bones but unlike the northern Midwest

wind you will find warmth again.

It is the green, I want to tell him, the

green warms you with the sun that

spreads blue then yellow and then you

see, I want to say to him, and then

just as the cold evaporates like

a fog you see the warmth rise

and fall around you in these little notes.

The tree grandpa couldn’t carry

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012

The tree my grandpa couldn’t carry

My body is sick again and I am reminded

of that tree downed in the storm, laying

on its side for all those years.

I remember how my grandfather’s

grainy hands tried to bring it back,

the bark settled into the ground.

I told him he couldn’t do it on his own, pretended

it had nothing to do with age, but everything

to do with the rain and the ground that sinks

everything up in it. It is almost quicksand, I said,

like the child I was knowing

nothing about the effects of time

or how tired my grandfather felt as he lifted

his hands to something like sky

and told me it was his way of praying.

Knowing

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012

Knowing

I think my head swirls around a beer glass

as someone at the bar orders something

in a language I cannot hear, but I am a

Midwestern girl and I smile like I have been there.

I tell someone near me that every scientist

is a lover of devotion. Plants and animals they are

like a new baby, they all want something

that only a scientist knows how to give.

I tell the stranger my dad is a scientist.  He

studies what the earth grows, but it is a place

I cannot permeate with this clumsy rhetoric

and my limited understanding of chiasmus in Joyce.

I am not sure how useful I am, I say as I take

a drink almost to a place of vanishing and

somewhere a sense of abandonment. I just

know words, I explain, and remember things like this.