we rock over the tracks like a heartbeat
of the steel bullet aimed at the heart of
the city
the disheveled student to my left
fumbles to keep his thoughts
from splaying across the floor like sheets of paper
the blonde beauty stands composed like a symphony
arm twined around the smeared pole like the clef of an ottava bassa
and the man with sunglasses by the sliding door
pretends to read yesterday’s news
my friends are my blanket
we flit like a school of fish through the echoing station
shuffle one by one onto the metro
they surround me now, laughing
i stare hard at the map of the tracks
senseless weavings of red, yellow, blue
our paths will split, our paths will split
that line of blue, there, that’s the one
it will carry me to a large gray station
empty except for an old man with a cane sitting solitary on a bench
a crumpled newspaper fluttering across the cement like a butterfly
a large cracked laminated sign that reads
“Arlington National Cemetery”
it will be strange
to reduce her gentle hands, the humming voice,
the pen-thin wrists and afternoon snuggling
to a cold white stone in the grass
there, the beauty has gathered
herself closer to the pole
an automated voice announces the impending stop
the whole world leans forward, then straightens again
the man clears his throat and exits
the student shoves his work into his bag
they have surrounded me, these friends
they press so close that i don’t need a pole or seat
i put my hand on one’s back, just to feel their presence
they are laughing at something one said,
they are preparing to go to dinner
here is my junction, we stumble to a stop.
the door slides open, all is immediate
i drape a handkerchief of light brushing fingers on one's arm
push myself in swift strides through the door
i freeze on the platform, for just a moment
for just a moment, i suddenly realized
no one else was coming.
i turn and stare
at my friends all crammed inside the doors
holding ropes and poles and walls
and they stare back.
they are forever different, we both realize
but only for a moment
the intercom dings and i am recomposed
i gather my thoughts like paper notes
turn sharply and march towards the flashing screen i cannot read
they watch me through the dirty windows
until the bullet clasps shut
and fires once again
Sunday, February 21, 2010
surfer
the waves have stripped the girl to her base
she strides so regally through the foam,
face upturned to sunlight
broken shells strike at her calluses
small fish suck at her legs
slight fingers drift along the surface, enjoying the tension
of water-meets-air
there, to the left
a buoy once cleanly flayed
red to white, floats smudged with stains once-living
chained to a rusting cage below
and on the horizon
a clean line of snowy gulls
signs ‘away!’
gravity compresses and lifts
a swelling of liquid sapphire topped with sequins
that once destroyed six villages
she turns and faces its being
rushing toward her obliviously
at the last moment, as it curled its arms
in a crushing embrace
her toes reject the rigid vacant sea-urchin homes
and she rises like a gull to the crest of the wave
inhales the foamy light-meets-liquid
rides its crest until it breaks
and deposits her with a fond sigh on the damp slanted earth
she rises
fumbles under the weight of gravity and
the awkward slant of her surfboard
fixes her blue-and-white striped suit to dispel wandering looks
of pepper-haired men with sunscreen on their noses
and black orbs masking their eyes.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
chapter 5
"I want to tell you about my love," said Charlotte. "I do not know where he is but I want to tell you about him so that you will come to understand me. I met him six years ago. His eyes were almonds flecked with gold. His voice was deep. It encased me. It drew me out like the ocean murmur of a shell that lures the mermaid into air. Every move was deliberate. We would gather after the chaos of class and find a quiet corner, a business desk and two chairs. He would sit behind the desk, leaning back in the black computer chair, and I sat poised on the chair on the other side. He seemed so grown and gathered, though he was only two years my senior. We carefully measured the gap between us and sat on our designated foundations and spoke slowly. Throughout the day I would think of the perfect phrase, full and blue and beautiful, to deliver to him in the evening, and he would receive it with gentle cupped hands. The gap was carefully measured and none would cross it, like hallowed ground. Finally he trod carefully on the oblivious grass, he looked at me confidently and said, 'I feel like I know you so well, but I know so little about you.' I hesitated, stared at his feet so daringly planted, stirred at the thought of the roots and boxes below. And I decided that his feet were not insolent, that earth was made to be walked.
I nodded and brushed my fingers against his arm, I brought him to the sandy beach.
The beach is so lonely in the winter, and so peaceful. The sand seems whiter, like snow. I stood still for a moment, stared at the expanse still unviolated, and cast him a sideways glance. He ventured onto hallowed ground, and I will allow him, I thought. He was asking for trust and I decided to unearth it. I held his hand tightly and led him out. We plunged below, past the icy night to where the bottoms are warmed by unseen forces, pulled him into the caves sacred white. The light danced designs on the smooth round walls. I heard the faintest murmur of singing and the splash of a water bed. Do you hear her? I asked. I could see her faintly in the darkness of a far cave, blue outlined robe weaving regally and languidly in the weightlessness. He was still. I don't know if he ever heard anything, but his silence was deferential. There it is, I said. Perhaps to you it seems mysterious and dark and wet and cold, but truly it is my greatest beauty."
"After four years he has returned," said Moriah. "Charlotte cracks nuts and casts them into the fire. The white ash grows underneath like an undiscovered life. She sits on the edge of the fireplace and cracks the almonds ferociously and feeds the flames to watch them dance with deathly beauty. Father is leaning back in the old stuffed blue rocking chair squinting at the smeared stamped news from behind his thick brown-rimmed glasses. The black words smear gray onto the creased paper. Mother weaves roses in the air unknowingly. She straightens a book on the coffee table. Evangeline curls her legs beneath her like a ball of yarn, pen poised above her striped notebook as her wide blue eyes are suddenly still and staring at the corner of the wall and ceiling. She has untied the kite from the spool.
I rise suddenly and hear my feet pound across the wooden floor, I press my hand to the stone counter. I extend to the off-white refrigerator stained by too many fingers, it pulls open with a sucking noise and I tremble as the air splashes me briskly. I slip open the drawers and scavenge - bright red strawberries, puce round grapes, hairy bronze kiwi. I hear a heavy form behind me and I turn. Jericho hulks behind me, waiting for the oasis to clear. I gather the fruits in my fists and shuffle away. He stands in the artificial light of the open cold and stares at the untasted contents."
"Ah, I am so silly," said Evangeline, "sitting here curled and stirring the contents of the pot with a quill, or puncturing a wound with its formidable fang. I hear music and wonder if he will call. I see the sun pass through the window and think of the gardens. I wore his mask as a game, I giggled as I took it on and off. But truly I wanted to understand its shape, what the back of it looked like. I wanted to feel the shape of the darkness to find a crevice to widen for the sun. He makes me dig in the earth with my short bare nails, and the dirt bangs rudely on the thick wooden door under my nails demanding entry. I am covered in dirt, but that is the way that life is. Life is not life without the muddy streaks, so paint them on your own face. Light a fire to boil the mudpit so that it will soothe you. Use your dreams to find the good, and dig through the earth with your bare nails to work to the good. Vote, he says. Go to city council meetings. Love is a political party and I have joined it. He has rapped sharply on the ceiling of my pristine pride and pulled me down into the grime. 'Humanity lies in the grime,' say his hunched shoulders and exceptionally dark hair. 'What are you doing floating apart from the others? You have not learned what it is to love. To love is to be broken.'"
I nodded and brushed my fingers against his arm, I brought him to the sandy beach.
The beach is so lonely in the winter, and so peaceful. The sand seems whiter, like snow. I stood still for a moment, stared at the expanse still unviolated, and cast him a sideways glance. He ventured onto hallowed ground, and I will allow him, I thought. He was asking for trust and I decided to unearth it. I held his hand tightly and led him out. We plunged below, past the icy night to where the bottoms are warmed by unseen forces, pulled him into the caves sacred white. The light danced designs on the smooth round walls. I heard the faintest murmur of singing and the splash of a water bed. Do you hear her? I asked. I could see her faintly in the darkness of a far cave, blue outlined robe weaving regally and languidly in the weightlessness. He was still. I don't know if he ever heard anything, but his silence was deferential. There it is, I said. Perhaps to you it seems mysterious and dark and wet and cold, but truly it is my greatest beauty."
"After four years he has returned," said Moriah. "Charlotte cracks nuts and casts them into the fire. The white ash grows underneath like an undiscovered life. She sits on the edge of the fireplace and cracks the almonds ferociously and feeds the flames to watch them dance with deathly beauty. Father is leaning back in the old stuffed blue rocking chair squinting at the smeared stamped news from behind his thick brown-rimmed glasses. The black words smear gray onto the creased paper. Mother weaves roses in the air unknowingly. She straightens a book on the coffee table. Evangeline curls her legs beneath her like a ball of yarn, pen poised above her striped notebook as her wide blue eyes are suddenly still and staring at the corner of the wall and ceiling. She has untied the kite from the spool.
I rise suddenly and hear my feet pound across the wooden floor, I press my hand to the stone counter. I extend to the off-white refrigerator stained by too many fingers, it pulls open with a sucking noise and I tremble as the air splashes me briskly. I slip open the drawers and scavenge - bright red strawberries, puce round grapes, hairy bronze kiwi. I hear a heavy form behind me and I turn. Jericho hulks behind me, waiting for the oasis to clear. I gather the fruits in my fists and shuffle away. He stands in the artificial light of the open cold and stares at the untasted contents."
"Ah, I am so silly," said Evangeline, "sitting here curled and stirring the contents of the pot with a quill, or puncturing a wound with its formidable fang. I hear music and wonder if he will call. I see the sun pass through the window and think of the gardens. I wore his mask as a game, I giggled as I took it on and off. But truly I wanted to understand its shape, what the back of it looked like. I wanted to feel the shape of the darkness to find a crevice to widen for the sun. He makes me dig in the earth with my short bare nails, and the dirt bangs rudely on the thick wooden door under my nails demanding entry. I am covered in dirt, but that is the way that life is. Life is not life without the muddy streaks, so paint them on your own face. Light a fire to boil the mudpit so that it will soothe you. Use your dreams to find the good, and dig through the earth with your bare nails to work to the good. Vote, he says. Go to city council meetings. Love is a political party and I have joined it. He has rapped sharply on the ceiling of my pristine pride and pulled me down into the grime. 'Humanity lies in the grime,' say his hunched shoulders and exceptionally dark hair. 'What are you doing floating apart from the others? You have not learned what it is to love. To love is to be broken.'"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)