The orchid on your desk
wasn’t for me, even if
sentimental reasons
gave it meaning
for me; I left
it for you, a reminder
I think of you, I
still believe
(or did believe)
in us. Your favorite
meal. Unopened poems.
Questionless nights
when you went
with friends, and
didn’t return.
The orchid wasn’t
for me; it was you
who needed (and missed)
the reminder, when you
said, “Are you seriously happy
a flower bloomed?”
I was. But it will
go with me.
–josephallennichols—
Returning to the river where I spent my childhood,
I watch salmon, already beaten raged
from the rapids,
heroically charge the falls, jump and fail
jump and fail.
In the hour I am audience to the pageantry
of ripping chunks of scales
and flaring gills
I do not see a single fish
make it to the top.
But, I know that as a species
they make it every year,
bellies full of spawn
carried to exactly were the carrier
was born.
In searching for some image to jump start my brain—
I have turn to the salmon.
Their incredible devotion, the sacrifice.
Their commitment to survival
of their kind.
I have come to steal from them a metaphor
describing some deep part of the human condition—
the emotional gauntlet of close relationships,
the suffocating grief of lost love,
the mind-numbing grind that doing
what you most want to do has become.
I want to see the hidden path to moving on
when there is no joy in moving on.
But the salmon have no metaphor to steal.
They make no compromise, feel no grief,
and determination is a word completely
out of context.
When the brain conjures no alternative behavior
the remaining behavior works its work.
Salmon, as far as we know,
have no sense of self-pity and do not imagine
a more perfect world.
They swim, they jump, they spawn, they die.
If there is a metaphor in there—
I don’t want to know about it.
I can still feel your
lips on mine
listening to Riders on the Storm
cuddled on the couch.
we told each other our deepest secrets
we both cried
I’ll always love you
for that.
But that was three years ago
and I cant stand that goddamn song
I dont wear tie-dye anymore
and you’ve grown our your hair.
and i dont cry
in front of anyone
anymore.
I’ve developed some bad habits
the first of which is keeping stressful jobs
Not a real stressful job like a surgeon or a policeman or a president
Artificially induced by sadists, I guess
Who demand it get done today
Which makes sleep restless
and I’ve started waking up before the alarm
And lay there, anxious, angry
sore shoulders not relieved by rolling
Watching my eyelids begin to lighten
wishing I could sleep again
Hating that first songbird
Elkhorn Fern
I’m beginning to feel a little
fenced in by the fern.
Massive and shaggy, the size of a small bison,
or a Volkswagon bug,
sadly cut down along with my live oak,
now ensconced next to my sliding door
still alive thanks to the watering system.
It grows bigger every day.
I fear it’s morphing into Audrey II
and will soon block my view
and grow with seeking vines
right into my house.
It’s sucking up al the oxygen
and sending out tentacles
for something else to eat.
I shiver when our eyes meet.
I’ve started using another door.
“Is there anything inside the package
that is liquid, fragile, perishable, and potentially hazardous,
such as a lithium battery or perfume?” asked the postal clerk.
“A letter for ISIS,” joked the elderly custoer.
“Do you know there’s a camera recording you?
Police could be waiting for you outside,” said the clerk.
|
Unwitting
Didnt want a man until i i pointed out the orioles Time wound like a bandage. Time reached the hot-pink of |
It was a great job.
They kept telling
us how lucky
we were.
The pay.
The benefits
of radium
to the health.
We would switch
off the lights
and admire
ourselves
shimmering
in the darkness,
the luminous dust
frosting
us like pollen.
The dials
of our painted
clocks and watches
glowed
in the dark
also, but then
our teeth
began falling
out. The bone
of our jaws
disintegrated.
We walked with a limp.
Anemia. Sarcoma. Death.
Nevertheless,
our remaining
bones
will continue
to shimmer
in the darkness
of our
coffins
long after
we are gone.
Two years five months five days nine
hours forty-five minutes without you
without that kick in the pants without
that shot in the arm without that burning
alarm bell in my chest my eyes shooting
open my pulse quickening my mouth
stretching into a rictus grin I do miss you
even as my children breathe without
impediment even as my wife and I taste
our dinners and desserts I miss having
something to do while driving something
to give me a break at work something
to depend on I love you still or maybe not
love so much as lust I lust you cigarette
I long for your fire in my mouth but on
the other hand you killed my father
so go fuck yourself you fucking fuck
