Plunck
Plunck
Plunck
Plunck
The sound of piano keys
Thrum
Thrum
Thrum
Thrum
The sound of the beating drums
Both
of
these
sounds
within
my
Heart
The sounds of kindness and rage
Dum
Dum
Dum
Dum
The dissonance forever plays
Maybe no one’s listening
when I ask the sky for a favor. Maybe
every win and every loss—every
stubborn, unopened door—
has been on my own hands. Can I hold that
truth longer than a day, through a restless
night? Will its roots gouge soft holes
in what remains of this life? What strength
do I have to show—being one
who faces the stars and the sun and
forgives their silence,
finds hope in being wrong.
He loves me
The way his warm breath lingers on my lips
Mouth soft against mine
But with a deep fervor and desire
Our hearts connecting with the tips of our tongue
He loves me not
The way his eyes dance between women
His fingers curling
At the thought of desire
The way he imagines his mouth against them
He loves me
The way he whispers to me
His hope for our futures
A joint melody of hope and love
This bond that seemed so strong
He loves me not
The way he looks her in the eye
Telling her how he wants her
His knuckle grazing her cheek
A sly smile as he takes joy in his deception
He loves me
The way his hands cup my curves
His chest pressed closely into mine
How I can feel his desire
Not only in the beating of his heart
He loves me not
The way he tells her every wanton desire
How he wishes he could feel the depths inside her
How he sneaks away
A secret soon to be discovered
Our love was fleeting just like petals on a flower
Not even flying away
In a beautiful wind
But dropping down to the ground
No meaning
No grand gesture
Just dying away
Just like the love I thought we shared
Of every sort, in which the estuary grew:
slipknot ridges with pallets of blue
hundreds of bridges, of which no one knew
pilchards prance to cesspool sprue—
a universe, a planet, a river unrest,
a tale of scales and mystique
Of pariahs, both odd and unique
Of every sort, in which the estuary grew:
ebb and flow met brine and inlet
ether and flower met isle and net
Mudflat became marsh and
unprincipled, an undertow
Of every sort, in which the estuary grew:
the rivers and oceans began life anew
Crawdads, abalone, and barracuda too
A great migration—
such a sudden ablation
Children became mermaids,
mermaids become men
I step to not trip
on roots and rocks in the path
til a thrush’s flute
turns me into air stirring
elm leaves in the canopy.
*References to and/or quotations from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (Hogarth Press 1927), the last sonnet in Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons by Marilyn Hacker (W. W. Norton & Company 1986), and “Posing for Cars” from Jubilee by Japanese Breakfast (Dead Oceans 2021).*
I. Blarney, Ireland; March 2023
up & down the slippery stone,
twice backwards, carrying my wish
for you like firewood for a witch
moss & the slow, heavy fall of water
over sentient stone (crafting my own dolmen)—-
the trees are so calm here, i woulder if they still carry life
i wondered if i still carried life
when you left me.
i didn’t believe in magic.
II. New Bedford, Massachusetts; September 2022
from the shore, distant
boat lights in the still darkness
mimic our blunt’s flame
will they heal? i won-
black coffee & the sunrise
-der, walking the shore
III. Lexington, Kentucky; June 2023
last night,
your roommate fucked a stranger
(isn’t sex & the holding after the only bearable thing in this life?)
sheets draped on the floor in morning
the song of their moans
carried me away
four in the morning, i felt
your leg wrap around my waist
i think of all the people i’ve slept with instead of you
what are these transactions between our bodies?
you: serving breakfast, burning incense,
showering, dancing, crying:
“& how much could you ever conceieve / How much I need you,
how truly barren I can be?” … & the guitar solo
i just want you to keep holding me,
grabbing me in the night when all gets startling
i think about the couple making out against the frosted window
the morning before you left for the valley
i prefer sex when there isn’t love
i hate how much i love you
Coda. Under a Sycamore Tree; May 2023
I don’t know how much I believe in the expanse of energy, how sturdy this trunk is, if we’re actaully being protected by the leaves, but I feel the weight of the earth under us & the radiance of the sun (& God, isn’t that something? forgive me for not praying enough), & I want to cry at what this feels like: being able to hold you again—-I wanted this forever & now I just want this fornow I used to desire forever. Infinity. Why does anything need to die? (“Floodgates let down to mourning for the dead / chances, for the end of being young, / for everyone I loved who really died”) but then I’m reminded of finiteness—-this heavy beauty—- I anticipate that you’ll leave me again,
now & that’s the beauty of this moment—-nothing more, nothing less, the transience, the uncertainty, holding on
to what we have now
I might’ve been born in the backwoods
and raised in a yard sale wardrobe
but I know what Versace looks like, honey.
And how to pronounce it, too.
Did you think I couldn’t clock couture
from a seat at the front of the room?
I belong there, same as you,
in my bright red Walmart boots.
Like poor folks ain’t seen big brand names
come strolling into the room?
It’s a condescending clip-clop,
the sound of stylish wedges
stamping down hope.
I’m a low-budget, high style hillbilly, sweetie.
And even my country ass knows
those things are so two seasons ago.
I’ll stick with some flea-market bootleg Versase,
with a long aaaaaa and a soft c
and a clear conscience.
And I’ll make it look good.
Pardon the colloquial code switch,
but it turns out you can be rich and jakey
all at the same damn time.
