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.

Poem for Friday, July 3, 2015

Backstory

Death is at the bar, always the same bar,
waxing defeat with his cards on the table,

looking exactly like what he is: a cracked relic,
shoulder-slouched, skin the color of

neglected wood, the shade of a certain surrender
that no one else can understand.

*

We assume he's just old and thirsty, that
he'll eventually step outside, cross the threshold

into the night: wind in his face, the shadow
of a dotted line snaking down his chest,

dividing his body in half, 103 bones 
on each side, perfectly symmetrical, and

it's uncanny how he's so much like us,
how he takes in the smell after it rains and

dreams of beautiful girls waiting for him
in the meadows. Do you know that sometimes

he looks up at the crescent moon, compares its
shape to that of his sickle, wonders

how much longer before he enters.

Poem for Monday, June 22, 2015

Summer Solstice in Lonoke County, Arkansas

On the longest day of the year, the water-pocked air
has managed to drown in itself as the sun descends
into the final embers of the evening sky.
It's a quarter past eight, but it only takes minutes
for sweat to salify on my skin, to tumble down
the creases of my forehead towards a slow little
death. From my grandmother's porch, feet dangling
off the edge into a thicket of ivy, I gaze up to study
a flock of birds perched on the power lines
that bisect East Main. There are at least fifty of them,
charcoal-breasted, poised with the posture of
disciplined soldiers. Some are motionless. Others
flap their wings and shuffle around the wires
to find their appropriate place in the hierarchy of
a new summer. And then, there are those few that
are easily scared, maybe even ashamed, so they
fly away, tempted by the anonymity of the clouds.
Consider how you and I aren't so different
from them, how we've behaved in all of these ways.
Do not think I have forgotten those nights
we learned the order of each other with the sky
at our backs. Those mornings that slowly bled
into the moment where one of us was suddenly
not there.

Poem for Thursday, February 26, 2015

At the Spillway

The fish have been reduced to flashes
of silver streaking beneath the current, and light
has never seemed so slow.

We set down our rods for a moment to
bait the hooks. You opt for an artificial jig,
fluorescent like sin. Now is a good a time as any
to say that love cannot be articulated.

Instead, I slip thread through a new hook,
banking off a metaphor while the sun
exploits my forehead. Before we recast,
I am branded a child of this earth. Consider this:

our lives, the tepid water spilling over

the edge.

Poem for Monday, February 23, 2015

You Can Find My Secrets

Like aspen in winter, stripped naked
of my gold, my limbs extend upward;
I am ready

to surrender to you, if only for a season.
We are not meant to know some things;
I will change

this. You can find my secrets scattered
beneath me, snow-tinged. Sift through
them carefully,

as you would with undiscovered photos
excavated from an attic, bleak with no
insulation.

Please tell me I am not like that
inside.

Poem for Saturday, November 15, 2014

Straggler

The day after she buried him, a layer of ice
had formed, covering his plot and creeping
up the granite to preserve the epitaph:

                        No Blood on His Hands.

Fifty years earlier, they were sweating on their
South Pacific honeymoon. She remembered
lying on the shore. He fed her June plums
picked from the vine.

But now, the cruelty of winter was apparent:
too cold for fruit, flowers, or birds except
a single flock-shunned goose, flailing
through a merciless gray sky

                       in fear and disbelief.