Tuesday, February 8, 2011

UT17: Another Ghost from the Vault

Written (or last revised, from what I can tell) 9/7/2010

Besides, We Thread Needles

We bury our parents behind the garden gate,
interred beneath roses and shields. My mother
is the rose. Fragrant. We forgive the obvious; we
forgive the pricks. Your father is the shield. This
is a wall. This is a step into a glass door. I
make a promise with cigarettes on highways
that glass is still transparent.

I make a promise with cigarettes on highways,
a trail-smattering to thread this needle - the needle
that fell; the needle that, I tell you in thimbled smirks,
has somehow threaded itself. Smoke tendrils up
past the small cherry glows, piercing its way through
muddling smog of the cityscape lines behind.

UT16: A Blast from the Writing Past

A series I wrote for an expressed purpose during the month of June in 2010.

The Apartment/The Beginning:
A Single Bar of Amber Light Lit Upon Your Sleeping Face

I am an empty glass bottle rolling along
asphalt; I hit the curb and tinkle apart
into intricate-sounding shards. I am
the vessle and the destroyer. I am
knitting to pass the time, counting
pearls of night-sampling the small
corner of mouth, the delicate smile.
I am the wounded teeth's apprentice,
the writer of a song written a year
and a day too right; I sing the lullaby
as a secret into the night air and I am
shards of a loosely knit wish to survive.

The Hospital & The House:
A Smell Like My Grandmother's Laundry Room

Hiding behind my lips was a jump to the feet
and a protestation: "But don't agree; your
basement smells like the inside of memory;
your hands feel like snuggling into bed
early in the morning,
and oh the mouth, the mouth is
the champagne-cola water ice I would share
poolside in the summer";
instead I kept my hands
folded politely,
on the fringe of twiddling thumbs,
idly staring at the static
behind your beautiful eyes,
and told you I understand, I understand
if you need to leave now.

The House/The Bunker:
The Door Closes/The Walls Return

If only this poem never were; if only
the ending were different, as it stands
now. I am no longer a green light
seen at night in New York City;
I am no longer a hand to hold
in a dark bedroom, a movie theater;
no longer a leg to lay an idle
hand upon in a moment of silence -
I am, instead, the moment of silence.