Poem for Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Cathexis

I.

Freud said Besetzung--an occupation, a
taking possession of. I am no psychologist, but
I am inclined to agree.

II.

All winter you have made it your mission
to keep the ground purely white. You sigh when
you see frozen heaps of ashes. You cringe
at the sight of crow's blood smeared against
the snow in tiny flecks.

III.

You never tell me about any of your childhood
memories.

IV.

When the snow melts here, it takes part
of the ground with it. When the next snow comes,
the cycle repeats. It is beautiful. It is meta-
chemical.

V.

You make it your mission to wake up with
the sun to see if it will pierce through the fog.
You drink your coffee while the sky is
aflame. All winter you do this.

Poem for Monday, December 2, 2013

We Laid in Those Same Fields

There was something about the position of
the sun, like someone tossed it skyward and

it got stuck in the oak branches, dripped fire on
our clothes below, like someone had that kind

of power. Did you have that kind of power?
Your daddy bush-hogging in the distance, we

laid in those same fields, learned to make small
talk, to feign interest in the shapes of clouds and

how to flick invisible mosquitoes off of each
others' hands. I had so many questions then, so

I asked one: why do you pluck the honeysuckle
petals and arrange them on your dress but never

taste them? Later on, we laughed as the tractor
stalled and your daddy cursed in the heat. That is

when I wanted you most--when everything was
torrid, when calm and chaos existed together in

those few quiet seconds. There was something
about how we laid there, the history of the grass

underneath your slender back. How people whose
names we would never know probably bled on it,

cut it down and watched it grow back again like
nothing ever happened.

Poem for Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Breach

You reach for something in the dark:

your hand, a delicate foreign object, slides through
the membrane of my dream.

It lands in a wheat field. I stand in front of this old
farm house. Red and white paint chips from the trim
rain down like confetti.

Your grandfather, whom I have never met, is there.
Real men, he says, break their backs. Real men
have thicker blood.

He begins to ascend. I look up at the sky. It is the
exact same color as the veins in the old man's neck.
I make the connection.

I start for the field then. I find your hand between the
golden stalks and begin to pull hard. The sun whispers
that it just killed Icarus.

It takes months to see your whole arm. It takes years
to see your eyes. But I stand, I pull, aging in the heat:

my back broken, my blood thickened
until I wake and after.

Poem for Sunday, November 10, 2013

Meantime

Someone is trying to describe the sky, thinking
of synonyms for gray. Someone is dancing in
the devil's evening shadow. Someone is peeling
potatoes and sniffing the skins before throwing
them away. Someone is burning an effigy, and
someone else is feeling the heat under their arms.
Someone is saying I love you in an empty room
and meaning it.

Someone is picking wildflowers and giving them
Latin names. Someone is obsessing over dark
matter. Someone is eating toffee and suddenly
missing their childhood. Someone is relinquishing
everything. Someone is dropping a vase, seeing
their face multiplied in tiny crystal fragments.
Someone is saying I know in an empty room
and meaning it.

Poem for Saturday, November 2, 2013

Virgen

We have few things here--no long Indian
summers, no window-toothed skyscrapers,

no lights, almost. There is one string
of lights between the moon and the ground

coiled around the Virgen de Guadalupe,
her holiness boxed in glass to protect her

hands, to keep them soft, white, clasped
in prayer through this black November

night. She catches you strolling by her
street, beckons you, and suddenly you

are standing  in front of her with your hands
in your pockets. You think of all the drifters

here in town and recall those childhood
stories of saints clad in tattered clothes

and panhandling angels. Through the glass,
she tells you to not be fooled--none are

like that, all of them are very much men,
most of them godless. You remember then

how her heart was broken the hardest,
turn around, continue into the dark.

Poem for Saturday, October 26, 2013

Message

She left with the blood-red leaves
of autumn, whirled out the door

in the same wind that took them.
Outside, the sun tears through

the naked maples with branches
outstretched like crucifixion, like

something beautifully broken and
tinged in the gray of surrender.

Inside, everything still functions.
You notice things like how loud

the wall clock ticks, how the
table has become amassed with

plates and cups. She left one last
ring of coffee there, inches away

from her napkin, as if to say
this is how it must be.

Poem for Thursday, October 17, 2013

Lessons from Stanford

I.

There are countless metaphors for death, each
more cryptic than the last;

death is indifferent towards them all


II.

There are several ways to judge a man:

the length of his string of crappie
the way he rolls his tobacco or if
he can clutch your soul and mark it
with his stories

There is one way to judge a woman:

is there fire in her eyes?


III.

There is something incredibly significant in
this image:

         a moonlit knife shining under the
         creek bed, washed clean
         of blood (on the
                              surface)
                 

IV.

We are those bloody knives, all of us
gazing up wide-eyed beneath the ripples
irradiated in moonbeams
tear-glazed and beautiful