January 10, 2017 · poetry

Hyacinths and Other Poems

Memories of childhood

We buried kittens in the yard
under earth and pine needles.
Their bones meowed and cracked
with every shift of ground.
We crawled around
the corner of the porch
to pick hyacinths from the soil,
a dollop of sun in a gray sky --
no outline, just a foggy web of light,
so bright in its center
like nothing was there.

On writing

And is there always more to love?
More to trespass, more
to wander, more to smear across your hand?
You think you’ve reached the end
but it’s not the limit,
it’s a rigid skyscape of stars
and one by one you hear them twinkling.
Take a livid corner of your mind,
flesh it open
spread its gray-pink contours
and let it sit.
For longer than you imagine –
let it be.
A transformation or a dolomite;
the crass sharp voice of
your editor barks pleasantly,
infectiously,
till you’re a sterile mop of feathers
and all the birds have flown.

When we ignore God

Who said it was poetry, who
the hell said anything like that.
It was mimicry, mockery,
fallacy, ecstasy. We
set our feet down and waded
and the water was troubled,
but none of us took
up our mat and walked.

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