Poem for Monday, February 25, 2013

In February

The morning appears through naked branches
and leaves

The evening
I trudge through, sloshing in cold-wet buckskin

There is no bitter taste in between;
There are the ghosts of pines,
Their whispers sapped with swill:

                   We heard the stars knock boots, they say
                   We buried Icarus in the Ozarks, they say
                   We kept our secrets

Like good little trees should.

Poem for Tuesday, February 8, 2013

Dunkirk 

I.

We must first establish this:

the salt in the ocean those days in 1940
is the same salt
in the ocean these days
is the same salt
in our vulnerable bodies, yours and mine.

(This is transitivity.)

___________________________

II.

I dreamed I swam days to save you
as the Atlantic diffused through me.

I dreamed the salt sliced my eyes
when the blue-tinged sun ignited.

I dreamed everything ignited
and your skin peeled and bled.

I dreamed my arms almost broke
then I collided with a skiff's hull.

I dreamed the skiff belonged to
a bearded man from Hastings.

I dreamed he and his young son
were pulling in soldiers with cod.

I dreamed you were on the skiff
emaciated and beautiful.

I dreamed you could not believe
how I came to your rescue.

I dreamed of course, how could I not
and was glad for German indifference.

(This is subconsciousness.)

___________________________

III.

I wake up, cotton-mouthed.

I drink fresh water.

You sleep still.

I check your pulse.

Your skin, pale prunes.

I trudge towards the kitchen.

God, thirsty.

(This is consciousness.)

___________________________

IV.

Suddenly, I love the way our kitchen
is decorated. Cornflower blue tile
tessellating around an oak island.

Does it smell brinier now? For
breakfast I'll have an egg and tomato
sandwich on wheat.

I never sharpen the knives, but I
get them out anyway. The cutting
board is stained with last meals.

Ever appreciated the sensation
of slicing a tomato? A grooved
blade easing into ripe red skin?

It is one thing I allow myself. I
palm the fruit, wet it under the tap
and lay it down for surgery.

The juice--blood in the ocean.
The aroma of last night's tilapia
seeps through the garbage.

Suddenly, there is a clamor of ships
outside. My arms are underwater
again, anvil-crushed.

You are still asleep, but I am strong and
buoyant. I will swim for you through
a thousand morning lights.

(This is epiphany.)

___________________________

V.

My heart

                in

                     Dunkirk.

(To be continued.)