Nowhere
2014 String Poet Prize Honorable Mention
Beyond the bounds
of maps, and no
brochures to tout
its ruined castles
or churches reconstructed
after the war
yet destination
of so many pilgrims
hopeless or devout.
Sometimes we stumble
on it unaware
when grief or anger
drives us
out of the house
and isn’t the sax player
eyes pressed shut
easing into its outskirts?
Monks locked
in meditation
bodies steaming
in falling snow
sit in the holiest shrine
of Nowhere
and even I, relaxing
in a hammock, can descend
a cloud’s high ridges
into foothills and blue
valleys carved by bluer rivers.
A country of air and vapor
more bracing than here.
Neighbor
In suit and tie, he wandered past our door.
Out looking for a barber, but I thought
he couldn’t look at four walls anymore.
He knew my name, showed how his white hair poured
down his nape. I drove him for a haircut.
Well dressed, but he’d lost the key to his door.
He lingered, spinning stories I’d heard before
after we’d found the hidden duplicate.
He couldn’t look at four walls anymore.
Next time he shambled through our yard, I tore
after him. Who had his money? Distraught,
dressed in suit and slippers, turned out of doors.
So cold I brought him in my kitchen. Roar
of his mind’s storm: charges crackled, hurled out
pain he could not keep walled anymore.
Conspiracies. Disguises. Lies. No Lear,
but he could smell betrayal. I was part
of it, calling his son, closing the door
of mercy no one opened anymore.
Sweet, Bitter, Bittersweet
“Feed me,” he says, and opens his mouth like a bird,
though I am the fledgling who long ago took wing.
Now that his weakness has a reason and a name,
he hopes his demands will keep me duty-bound.
Though I am the fledgling who long ago took wing,
when the spoon scrapes the bowl and rises to his lips,
he knows his demands will keep me duty-bound.
But I can’t sugarcoat my bitterness.
When the spoon scrapes the bowl and rises to his lips,
though I see my reflection swimming in his eyes,
I will not sugarcoat my bitterness.
The sweetness he craves can turn on his body now.
I saw my reflection swimming in his eyes
when he slid from his chair. I thought he was faking.
Blind to how sweetness can turn on his body now.
Only the doctor’s chart could prove me mistaken.
When he slid from his chair, I thought he was faking,
as he thought my mother was when she held her heart.
No doctor’s chart could prove him mistaken.
Turning to stone under stress is my greatest art.
He thought my mother faked when she held her heart,
as I hoped she did, believing she’d never leave me.
Turning to stone under stress is my greatest art.
Whose daughter am I, turning my face aside?
As I faked my hope, believing she’d never leave me,
I never spoke my love. There would be time for that.
Whose daughter am I, turning my face aside?
Is it true there is nothing that cannot be forgiven?
I never spoke my love. There would be time for that.
Now that his weakness has a reason and a name,
is it true there is nothing that cannot be forgiven?
“Feed me,” he says, and opens his mouth like a bird.