🌬️ new poem published at Poetry Society of America
Notes from the Mezzanine
I mean the hard losses—no coming back from this one
ball already over the fence. Before anyone walked,
before we ran, just phantom steps and the cold sweat.
Headcracks, another long toll back to square one,
breath guttering down to its wick, the rip of hair
strand by strand, code red, then red itself.
Hospitality hours grind the knees, five white knuckles
and the years folded after the cheating. And I’m off
the roll. And it’s late again. I don’t look my neighbor
in the eye though our mail sticks together, it was
my sink water that rained through her ceiling and
an apology is just a down payment on the next flood.
I mean, what do we owe each other at this point—
Ah, see—there is something: a protest that stands up
to the sick voice in the head that executes the self.
In the greenhouse, flaming swords and urn plants
drown flies in their cups. Their leafy necks bend
a little to bear the winds' wrestling; even a child’s flimsy
diamond kite knows this. I feel lucky when the give
doesn’t snap. The good news is I don’t get what I deserve.
The good news is I do. After the affliction, after the water
of life leaks from lopsided lids and we were the drought,
all splits start to make sense until we lean over the rail
to see the gray in their hair. It is in us to spin, but only
on the rim, pennies circling a wish bowl. We have proved
there is no plumb line that can reach a token once it drops
and—just a note to say—it sounds like infinity down there.