Poem for Monday, October 19, 2015

Flight Patterns

I never learned it was autumn from the trees
because their transition from green to gold
was too subtle. Instead, I depend on

the white-breasted magpies, the cerulean
trim of their wings streaking against
a Central Asian October sky.

Make no mistake: these birds are thieves,
clenching shiny metal objects in their
beaks, depositing them in nests tucked

among anonymous branches. Back home,
Canadian geese fly south in v-shaped
patterns, honk in unison when they feel

the first bite of cold. But magpies fly alone,
bullet through the clouds with a certain
stoicism. They seek shelter in treetops,

chirp like a freight train collision. I walk
below them, expecting to catch the gleam
of a silver bracelet, a piece of tinfoil.

I look up to nothing but frantic sounds.
Darkness drapes my once-blue eyes, and
my ears ring in the shadows.

What they are saying is this: love migrates
faster than any bird, with no guarantee
to return in the spring.

Poem for Sunday, October 4, 2015

How to Greet a Man in Samarkand

Make sure the palm of your hand
is spread wide over your chest

like a sun-blotting canopy,
covering as much of your heart

as possible. Nod your head
slightly; you cannot wish peace

upon someone without succumbing
to gravity for at least a second.

Look him in the eye during
this exchange, pupil to pupil.

Half of the work comes before
you utter a sound, and when

you do, your pronunciation
doesn't have to be flawless,

but your intentions must be.
If he reads you correctly,

his chin will shift downward,
his respect is yours for life.