additional Poems
Call Me When You Get There
No need to tell me what kind of luggage
you’re carrying or how far you plan to go, or even
how long this particular journey
will take. Whether you cross two borders or twelve
is of no consequence to me, at all. Don't trouble me
any further,
on that account.
Spare me the details of obstacles
and missed connections, of all of the blind spots
you encounter, in the road. Likewise, don’t broadcast reports
of the many flies entering
your tent or how love has
flickered so elegantly, so unexpectedly,
in your path.
When you walk into a dark field in the middle of the night,
keep those thoughts to yourself. They are yours and yours alone.
You will sell your soul along the way.
No matter. You’ll buy it back, and it will fit better,
the second time around.
If it’s cloudy all day where you are, it really makes no
difference to me, at all. Just call me
when you get there,
before the willows bloom, before your
temperance blooms.
(Summer 2014)
The Undignified End of St. Philomena
It was getting late.
We all said goodbye to Philomena.
She had had a good run, all things considered,
buoyed for centuries as a saint
in her category, dependent, as she was, on the thinnest
of legends. Even for a saint, the story tugged hard at
reality.
Still, she was the martyr we all aspired to be. Quick and witty
and able to withstand
all of the pressures that come with being a martyr over the
centuries, but nowadays especially. She was sure-footed
and did her part, gave us courage, helped us defy the boiling
oil and poisoned arrows, or so our imaginations had us
believe.
But her usefulness was fleeting,
even as we extended our youth, year after year, redefining
what the word meant to us, pushing the boundaries ourselves.
And then when lost causes became unfashionable,
and winning at
all cost became all the rage, well, then we knew it was
time. Her work was done.
And so we said our farewells—there were so few of us still at the
party, we could take our time.
Serpentina
We took his ashes to the mountaintop.
I rode in the bashed-up van. The fog was everywhere,
dense, delirious. We sped along the one-lane road,
anyway, sharp rights, sharper lefts,
a carnival ride. A dog jumped into my lap. Only when
we reached the mountain house did I realize how far up
we had climbed already. We set off into the icy air.
The wind pushed back
on our progress. Finally, what looked like a meadow.
The straight path was not passable. On the ridge,
we considered the options. Someone broke out the beer;
another began piling stones, pyramid-like, bent, on collapse.
The ashes escaped our hands in hazy coils.
