Tell Me, Darling, Who's Doing the Talking? And Then, Who's Not?

Wilton, New Hampshire

Tell Me, Darling, Whos's Doing
the Talking?  And Then, Who's Not?

                               

...what remains

is the heart, its choke a small reminder to be mindful

lest we go too far

for flavor.

                                                Jorie Grahm

                                                An Artichoke for Montesquieu

What I want to know is how the heart

got to be choke and welcome and when choke

got to be an opening of a vein-

line to fuel.  I’m telling you I’m the first

to admit I’m as naïve as kindness

in its simplest form: how when the poet,

quiet, pulls back the petals of the vegetable

in her hand to get to the heart

all the while loving each peaked piece,

sucking each leaf, all along warning me

not to go too far, not to mar the perfect

knot raw and trembling (somehow

I miss this the first time) in the palm of her hand.

I’m sure all those among us say

at one time or other it wasn’t supposed

to happen this way--such a cliché--I was

happy I am happy, but of all the fruit in the orchard this

is the one that’s picked:

                                and it’s early in the morning

                                and she’s not allowed to be

                                here so she’s had to sneak out

                               

                                and the night all the nights up

                                until now are shivery kinds

                                of nights, especially the hottest

                                and all the clouds conspire

                                the palm

                                the open cheek

                                the pull

                                the helpless letting go

                                (but...

                                                and the only resistance

                                                is skin

                                                is thinning armor

                                                is the wish for a quick knife

                                                is the sigh under pressure

                                                when that knife

                                                and the next sigh

                                                startle and penetrate

                                                at the same time

                                                and afterwards

                                                if we survive, a nick

                                                of a scar

                                                where the corner

                                                of the lip turns from top

                                                to bottom just there

                                                on the horizon

                                                before a tongue

                                                before blood beads

yes--believe me when I say

I am naïve

I have never even touched

the ground

but oh the dew in the night

yes and the wet breath

against me....

driftwood

Driftwood

ˈdrif(t)wo͝od:

wood that is floating on the water

 or carried to the shore

by water

But not this particular piece, the one caught on the waterline
the one that rises yes, of course like the tide, only bidden by
the continuous teeth (isn’t all work like this) of the beaver who keep
rebuilding, keep the water of their sky from falling too low---

I find I’d like to have known the tree whose roots

shoot up from the pond like two bull moose forever hung

and dead now in their rut.  What was it like for the hunter the moment
he stumbled on the stuck carcasses of them in the woods,

two bulls bled out, defeated, deflating.  Does he wonder maybe

after he says shitfuckJesus what it’s like to die that way, the fight going out

of them like a sudden (but then slow) puncture and the panic (listen, wouldn’t

you?) of knowing there’s absolutely no way out now,

enemies locked together holding like glued fists their almost bones

(how did they get them out, how did they (didn’t they?), the game
wardens, untangle them, unhook the intimate latches and see where the trouble

was and poor bastards their way through the woods and say

never me never me and go home later with some animal

drive to take their wife (and for a crack of a second any

girl…(or boy) would do and make and make and make

and bawl and brawl and strike and lock, their pelvis trembling

their breath on the precipice of their grinding jaw?  Didn’t

they?  And safe in knowing they can get out alive, ultimately

it all gets unlocked.  The bulls die together hours maybe days

apart, their antlers their ballsy prize their undoing and the sky

rains on them and snows on them ravens beat down on them
and for a time they are iceentombed and then melted through
and through and the wardens gift them to the state museum, heads
now and glass eyes and completely absent of life.  I like to think

this tree, roots only now and dull bleach, grey as wet beach sand, has made the best

of the rest of its life, and if we wanted to take it away we’d have

to wade up to our hips we’d have to be willing to freeze

a piece of ourselves, a vital piece, maybe give it up

entirely but not know that was what it would cost

when we got in the water, and then, like those moose, or the man

finding them, panic first at our fall, panic a blazing track laid down

and the scorch on the woods road scars to an old old road only animals

and now us, (there’s no going back from such thrust up

beauty) know.

Spoon

See The V: The Wedge of Geese?

Spoon

Think of all the men you’ve fallen in

love with all their hands all their fingers splayed open

on the table that moment they reach for the warm

cup of coffee how it’s not the hand whose fingers

curl into the handle stiff sitting and settling into

the weight

and commitment of the cream,

sugar, spoon with its little mocha pool (once

it’s stirred) beside the placemat no not that hand

that seems the leading hand but the other one

the one that cups the cup that braces it before

it’s all lips and tongues before it’s all

                                                                sssssssst and eyes the lids are hoods now

that look out over the rim

                                                                remember?  How you still

keep the edge of that left hand (it’s warm isn’t it) imagine how oh

how you imagine warm imagine you remember I know

you do being warmed by that hand

your shoulder the curve of your elbow the curve

of your breast (just his finger-

tip) the curve of your back (the whole hand)

curve of your hip (yes) the curve of your thigh (yes) your calf your ankle your

                                                heel imagine relaxing

letting yourself come on into it without coming away

with a poppy of a bruise (it’s too soon but you go

there right away I know you do just like I know it’s only

a cup of coffee and he’s setting it back down

empty and gathering his things and leaving

he’s the first man he’s all the men you ever

fall in love with but never touch ever as if

                                what the first man said

                                came true

                                when you were seven

                                when he gripped you getting into you gritting his teeth

                                                (who, precious thing (his breath was shit)

                                                will ever believe you ) and he pulls

                                                his thumb out and sucks it dry

                                and you fall away or rather just off

                                like skin sun burnt red red red for days

                                of dry pain before its lifted it comes away

                                milky as clear wet varnish the cowl of your hymen

                                in lacy shreds he rubs on his fingers he stirs into

                                the hot coffee stirs and stirs

                                and then licks and sips, never once asking

                                for a spoon.

When Beside Your Bed Is the Last Time Beside Your Bed

When Beside Your Bed is the Last Time I’m Beside Your Bed      

When we can’t alter ills that upset us,

we will change their names to prevent compassion

from disturbing our unique composure:

                words to deny worlds.

Vocabulary voids original sin;

calvary of the lie reaches Calvary

just in time—to bungle Christ down from the cross;

                But: no nails, no Christ.

                                                                Donald Hall

                                                                Let Us Meditate on Virtue

I

When what? When is what is supposed 

different than what is
to see?  When the wind and water?  When
the rale on the new machine?  When

will they bring it all to measure?

When what’s left of her lungs?

When, after all those months with or recovering

from?  When again pneumonia?

When to cry after stepping on the lit cigarette?  When it singed

and riffs and rims in the bedroom

carpet but also on the bedspread?   When to her chin?

When bit by bit?  When she falls yes,

but when she's some apart or completely?.  When barely barely?  When out of her

woods but when did she start?  When

coughing stops? When again blood? when again piss

and puss?  when again?

II

I think in retrospect

these days (how else)

like Keats who knew before

he left England with Severn

he’d be gone out of there

forever eked squeezed

his fists a lung a lung

his fists a lung and me sitting

near her gurgling it was

like this for his painter

friend the only friend

who could or did or would take time

the time (something profound

was happening

here) to accompany him

all the way to Rome...     and the room

closes in on both of us.  In the end both

all of us will shrink and shrivel

from the body dying

but not before we (Severn’s and me) ink

it all in the brief alive but still

face the stroke on the paper the way

just moments ago

(years and years now ago)

we’d stroke the hair/the cheek

and see now how like April

our leafs one by one and leave

in the beginning but not before they unfurl.

And how quite like late November

they curl and crumble and devote

their numinous pieces

to the wind and soon to come snow—

III

Keats.     he      ...     well    ...    he     ...      why

wouldn’t he

had his doubts close

as he was to the mouth

of the drainpipe close as he was

to the intake of a breath listening

his brother (one gone one gone

to America) his mother

right? he must’ve                            running

or all he could do

in the end was float

to Rome to take the air there

or let the air take him

with Severn tending him a friend

a breath

a fresh word

a string let out like knots

off the

                                what side?

                                                                of the ship

to guess the wind

                                speed

                                                when will she be…

Nurse?  I touch my mother's face maybe
the way Severn touched Keats---pen stroke---going true
while there's still a bit of breath in the throat
in the bubble coming up to the lips
to the nose and so is this the moment?  or is this
the moment?  What about his?  But there’s no one true
left to ask

I Have to Say

I Have to Say

Part of me dims with pain,

Becomes the stinging flies…

Part looks into your light

And lives to tell you so.

                                                James Merrill

                                                “Last Words”

For Becky B.

I haven’t seen enough

                of autumn—I haven’t I can’t be

                                                content

               

                with a drive by drove through

                                                on my way to

some stop quick slip it all in and make it

               

                                home

                                               

                                                to supper at dusk a dusk under

                the and over the

                                                tree I walk beneath I haven’t seen

                                enough see this girl I knew once she

                                                                came though sometimes

                                                sober

                                sometimes (k) not she’s not

now plain and simple she’s not and won’t ever be

                                again

and I wonder if I hope so she saw

                                on that rainy day before

                she

                                dropped

dead

                if she thought

                                                                yellow

                                look

                                                yellow I love yellow

                                it’s raining it’s been raining all the way back

from Phoenix I’m about to scream see

                                this shits real it’s dope it’s lit look

                I haven’t seen it since I got out

                                I’m clean I’m stayin’ clean

                                                baby don’t not in front of me

                               

                                                                                                don’t I know listen don’t

                I said I won’t no no

                                                                   I'm supposed

                                                                           to stay

                                                        sober

                                                ok                                           ok

                                                                just this one more once one more

                                                                                last time

what whah’d you say too late

                               

                                see all that yellow

                                                                that’s deep that yellow see it the sun shining

                fuck it’s shining in the rain

I haven't seen enough

I've already seen 

                                      (this is number fifteen second one this year)

             enough

                                                

Today Memory is a Staked Cow Grazing

Today Memory is a Staked Cow Grazing

These days remembering:

                                an dull throb yeah? won’t you say? straight through

memory

it takes excessive

                lengths makes

                                                itself the iron

                                stake we’ve chained

                out our dairy cow every early morning

                                                                she’d steam release the heat

of the night of the barn the links clink

                                while she grazed raised her great

                                                black and white face and made to look

into me and I watched and wanted

                                (but I was afraid

                                                of those horns)

                                to talk her into

                               

                                                knowing me

                the way people should

                               

                                                but would not didn’t

                               

                                                                                want to

straight as that iron stake and she’s the strangest sun

                                dial her moving mowing down

                                                the sometimes green sometimes blond

grass and along the way

                                                random

                                                                and instinctive as need

                her piles

                                of shit;

In the closing

                                                of the day she’d walk

                                right through it she would

                                                                flatten everything she made her way

days soft clay soft warm wax soft

               

                                                making her way now their way

                                                                                                                                falling off

                with each lift

                                                                these days

                                                (we stand and eat we need what maybe we need we press

                                                                the cool two barrel muzzle

                                                                                we use

                                                                                                                to let her loose

and we walk through too

                               

                                we leave

               

                                                                                tracks all the way

                to the length of the chain

                                we’re all every one of us

                                                staked out

                                                                                                on

                                                                                               

                                                                grazing

I Think Grief Maybe Doesn't It Starts Like This:

I Think Grief

               

Maybe—Doesn’t It?—

Starts Like This:

Suppose you leave today

Suppose you take all your own

                music and sit-

                                                uate it

in the speakers

of your car loud

Suppose you sweat leaving

the driveway but don’t look

back not even for that

perpetual

                                last

                                                check

perhaps

or Suppose worse you don’t stop on your way

                out don’t even look

or maybe Suppose

you can’t see me or find time for me the time

                a brief rendezvous:

                                I told you they were showing

                                Thoreau not far from here I wanted

                                to take you the last time

                                I called you from Walden

                                                holding you

                                                in the phone

                                                beside an old cairn Whitman wrote

                                                about, setting stones

                                                when he stood here

                                I called you

                                                mud on my shoes

                                                I’d slipped in the marsh

                                                across from the pond

                                                and then taken it all       

                                                back home

                                                with me:

where he walked...

and suppose you went too

                                anyway I’m afraid

maybe

                you are too far away now Suppose suppose

just suppose

you’re supposed to leave today

Suppose you stay

one more day waiting

the snow the wet heavy snow-- Listen it’s just one day
into Fall--the snow

is still

months away

For Emeline One Hundred Years Old

For Emeline One Hundred Years Old                                                      

Tonight let us fill

our wineglass without fretting about the futures, which only

sours the Beaujolais.  Forget tomorrow’s blueberries; eat todays.

                                                                                                                Donald Hall

                                                                                                                Camilla, Never Ask

Today you would have been one hundred

years old.  Your hands and feet.  Your

eyes.  All of what you’d heard and smelled.

Your body and the blizzards and the scorch

the constant swell you settled by moving

all the time moving through the world

the way water moves through the world

                                the way you’d rise

                                from the night and

                                light a fire

                                and soon there are warm

                                biscuits and butter

                                and a cup of coffee

                                and the sun’s not even

                                up

Today you would have been one hundred

years old.  You made three babies and they

made their own and some strayed

and some remained and the way was long

for all of them. 

Today you would have been one hundred

years old and it’s giving rain.  If you were

alive you’d take it like a skein of your favorite

yarn all knots on one end clear

for miles on the other.  As it comes.

In your hands brief enough to make it

another row and another row and another

nothing coming undone.  Mother grandmother

we cover our bodies with your body

with your hands and wrists with your garden

green beans your blueberries your soft cheek today

today you would have been one hundred!

One Hundred Years Old.!

Sally

Sally:

a sudden charge out of a besieged

place against an enemy, a sortie 

Today back and forth brief

like batting an eye-

lash and the watery dust

she tells me after they took her

uterus laparoscopically and the

fallopian tubes

and all the tools she’d used

to make those babies

she’d say with righteous

distaste the cancer’s

gone they’d got it

all not a cell seen in all

the other cells all the other

peoples bloods (she’d lost

some of her own some-

where) it seems to have come

quiet to a close after that

assault like a new bully

who’d never been up

against the likes of her

done up like Joe

Lewis or I like to think Sally

Ride taxiing down the run-

way after all those days

in space a lone floating bee

seeing the bloom far off

homing in homing in

Extubating You

Extubating You

to walk out into that kind of cold while holding you knowing I'd walk back, I'd have to, alone...

Because it's inevitable: the tongue on the rim

of the mug touching the newest chip of the now

exposed unglazed clay, or if not the tongue, the lip

yes, the one I cut sliding up against writing

about you even though it was all true and couldn’t be

couldn’t be! truer, like the tree bent from

the left to reach the side of the beaver pond path

gone ecstatic stiff one year in a quick ice and blizzard

wind it dipped its head and shoulders in

the water and it cost the tree it’s entire

backbone so that today walking by is walking

under her arch otherwise it’s water

and who can walk on that or who wants to

even in clean ice that hasn’t seen snow

yet you know how it all slows down and yields

and the chips and the glazed gray eye of it

come later much later, in the  middle where it’s thin

or thinner where it suffers

a bob house and a man where it once fell through

and him too, bed and all but he was froze

solid that’s what someone said but he fished

still living while I drew out slush from the new hole

I breathed back into it and soon the lick of wet

and dry wet and dry split the lip and it bled

and I kept at the blood I kept it all to myself

sometimes between my teeth sometimes a pucker

sometimes nothing but me dreaming I was

walking beneath that birch that went out

and over into the pond and still does it goes out

and over from one edge of the world

to the other they say those that’s starved

of oxygen start to hallucinate like a fever’s took

their brain and they start saying things crazy

things so ok tell me how can any crack

in the glass or the back woods path like that

while I catch my breath to jump be avoided?