borrowed

"The sands whispered, Be separate, the stones taught me, Be hard. I dance, for the joy of surviving, on the edge of the road." ---Stanley Kunitz

V. (shoel)

The sliver of shaded dirt

where people wait

and waiting remain speaking

through their aching dreams.

In cycles, the moon is cold

on their limbs, their faces;

Not quite the day-night

but still time

moving like a sifting sea coast.

There is only dulled feelings,

opiates in stilled bloodstreams

a canonized set of sweet sense,

the only remnants of living.

No more names under the world

the heaviness of hurtling matter

through forever is constant

and silent-- our shadows slip

in between the earth and our fingernails,

the half-moon scratchings

of children in the dirt.

IV. (sermonizing)

The smell of living is distinct

and absent from America.

A fear of death

dictates that beginnings

be coddled like favorite children

while adulthood is lost

to routine.    

But the beginning of anything

is weighed down by

everything. There is a false

freedom in a new idea or body.

Experience is a full range

Of (e)motion and it gives

moments of immortality

to the whole

of a human.   

III.

Being oblique, the buildings

of the city pretend to be military.

They sit rumpled in approximate lines

encroaching into each others’ space

like old men and women on the tramway.

But when has streamlined, gridded picture

ever freed a place from culture-weight?

I will take the approximate

order of the everyday-

the kind of city that fleshy hands make

that brains stained by woodland sun

and turquoise water create

one generation after another-

a free metropolis.

II.

It is not

calling aloud

to god that makes

god open one eye

from infinite rest.

Setting off alarms--

bodies falling into

the clean, ravenous

space beneath cliffs

too young mothers

birthing purple babies

teeth without meat,

lips without balm

war, war, and hate--

These things break

life but do not

invite reverberations

from the oldest foundations.

It is satin silence,

the touch of chimes

moved by breeze

on back porches

Bodies sheltering bodies

waiting for the bus

In imagination-

taking space and shaping

it temporarily, forever

seeing the ghost shape

of birch trees against

winter skies

It is planted in the stomach,

(the deepest part)

that does not bleed

or die or change.

The smallness

of strength is

remarkable.

I.

I hit a limit

with my teeth,

the stone

of a cherry.

Definite centers,

contrite and

oaken-true, define

the fleshy shape

of ripe. 

After hearing Natasha Trethewey's poem, "Myth"

The poet speaks about dreaming

of dead mothers and I

wide-eyed feel exposed

in the solemn quiet room.

That night I dream

of you, as if the poet’s words

are an incantation.

We are leaving

a library together,

you wearing a pale

linen suit and lipstick,

and I walk ahead

because it has been so long

since I had to

wait for you.

And looking back,

you had fallen and lost

your shoes.  I come

and clean off your

muddied pant leg

with my hand

and lift you, your

body the battered

softness of mother.

I remember now

what it is to be

a daughter, to have

someone to wait for,

crossing whole

cement plains of a

city’s inconsequence

Together.

You ask questions

that are not malicious

but soothing, exploratory-

a reminder that there is

someone that does not

look to damage your

pride but build it like

a kingdom

kept by all women.

Our stone legacy.

You tell me

you would like to see

Finland before

you die. I know you

are dead because this is

my dream but I start

booking night flights

to the deepest snows,

to the kind of country

I imagine Finland to be.

I consider the toughness

of boarding trains

when your leg is so swollen

and heavy. I consider

your hydration, your

bowel movements.

My plans disintegrate

into sickness-

your stomach hardened,

a mass of coiled tree roots.

In the morning,

I lay in bed with thin

lines of daylight coming

through the blinds,

falling across

my belly, greening my eyes.

I hold onto you

for a few more minutes

and try and memorize

your outline, I try and

build a body out of sun dust.

I walk to the library

and drink coffee in the café.

As I sharpen a pencil, I watch

the curl of the shavings.

I feel treasured, suddenly

I feel full of meaning,

remembering what it’s like

to be a daughter.