Litany Ending with a Taste of Nectar
(nek-tar): that which overcomes death
In the one, long, mournful syllable
spilling from the hive hidden in a hawthorn
or the barn's loft emptied of barley straw
In these lilacs which redeem the air
each spring and killing frost which distills
each fist of grapes heavy on the vine
In all the fruit, blemished or unblemished,
which burdens the never-ending branches
with sugar drawn from beneath the orchard
In the rose with its numerously layered
lives: Fire & Ice, Deep Secret, Heart's Desire
In pollen held aloft in time like snow
by the photographic disposition of memory
In the son replacing his father,
the daughter her mother and so on, and so
In the spirit abandoning the body,
wherever there is sorrow, lives what saves us.
"Litany Ending with a Taste of Nectar," was first published in Shenandoah
The Art of Poetry in a Time of Drought
When the cob withers right on the stalk
and wind finally rises to cool the leaves
and they gesture more like licks of flame,
when salt burns sweet to quench a thirst,
then chill your wrist under the spigot.
Remember a hornet sting or the hot current
pulsing through electric fence remedies
Grandfather's rust and rheumatism.
Remember a splinter may discover its own way
out of the body if one can bear it long enough.
Garlic to thin the blood, nettles to stop the flow.
The well rings hollow, the cistern dry,
a wind full of chaff is still an empty wind.
So turn to the music of bone games and rain sticks,
watch for a twitch from the rod that will divine
hidden water within the most parched of soils.
In times of drought fever, it is said
rest on a corn husk mattress can bring visions.
Awaken to run a blade across your tongue
then slather the wound with pitch
so that you might tell of these dreams.
"The Art of Poetry in a Time of Drought." was first published in The
New Orleans Review
Your Life As Found in a Toolbox
Everything necessary to maintain
every foundation ever built so far
is found simply by fondling the latch,
as easily as recalling a less fond past,
and then by handling each orderly tray
of tools too simple to call hand tools:
a stick of chalk meant for marking
the measure of almost anything
from concrete to an assortment
of planks sorted out as useless;
that yellow Stanley measuring tape
used to measure what used to matter;
and one lead stone to plumb the line,
much like a fisherman's sinker or fob,
and gauge the point of vanishing.
Reach much deeper to find those
that fit the hands perfectly
of any man who constructs
a reluctant living with his hands:
the square a clumsy boomerang
perfect at setting the record straight;
a claw hammer meant to hammer
whatever it can to your expectations
then claw them apart on second thought;
and finally, ultimately, the spirit level
with its single, jaundiced eye
leveled expectantly in your direction
and rolling whenever you breathe,
the only bubble in the world
that won't burst at the slightest breath.
"Your Life As Found in a Toolbox," was first published
in Poetry Northwest
The Company He Keeps
He never was one to feel alone.
Most of his Wonderbread
waits under the lip of the crock,
bacon grease snaps on the burner.
The burls of his cabinetry
peer back like caricatures.
He appreciates any visitation
of weather: drizzle on the shingles
or how, moments after,
steam lifts from wet asphalt.
He appreciates the boxcars
endlessly coupling in his dreams.
The neon there beyond the tracks
proclaims Christ Is The Answer.
Who asked? he says to himself.
He’s acquainted with the light
in every variation from the lamp
while in the dark of his closet
the shirts press close together,
shoes upended, buckles tarnishing.
All through the night he listens
for a sound that never happens.
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