What Is and Was

There are good things, but they do not occur to you.
Maybe it is more correct, they do not happen
Maybe that they do not exist for you
They are just the same as they were when we
Could exist together,
Twisting dreadlock between forefingers
Jumping my body off ledges
Checking mailboxes for package-slips
Like there is a great clarity, now that I am looking
Through things to what is there. I can see better.
Through glass, through impurity right to it.
You most undear now.

Poems I wrote when I was nineteen

and I went to the coast to work at a Quaker camp in Maine.

Composed
I hope you fall in love and only wonderful things happen. I hope dragonflies
swarm around shoulders when you walk past still ponds, and you think about
magic, and maybe begin to believe. I hope that warmth you feel when she laughs
heals everything broken, and ugly, and scared inside you. I hope your dumb human
bodies keep each other's warm. I hope you fall in love with a girl, and I hope
it is beautiful and miraculous and wild.

Maps
If we became
snail-sized
then our known worlds
would exist as the
flowering fields we moved through
encompassing the entirety
of yellow-shelled lives
and we wouldn't think of "sky"
and we wouldn't think of "horizon"
and then that empty distance
between our two smooth bodies
would be incomprehensible,
instead of aching.

Offertory
cupped the clear water of
these days in my hands, and
I saw your visage
wrinkle the surface.
stillness.
and then the days
slipped through finger spaces
to puddle round the roots
of begonias and lilies
that offer themselves
up
like palms in prayer

Clay Emblem

On a bright day the package arrived. The long letter was folded in thirds and sealed with poured-on wax. Her black ink writing quivered across the page in tendrils. In the margins was scrawled a picture of the clay figure she’d made, compacting white dirt from her
yard with water, round ball taking shape between nimble fingers. The creature was an homage to a pet gerbil from years past, and also something entirely imagined. The long tail had split from the body on its voyage, as she’d expected. I peered into the scratches marking its eyes and could not bear to name it and make it knowable. I rubbed its body, my thumb starting behind two ears and tracing the curve of its back. Four legs curled beneath its flank. I held it up to my mouth and intoned, o amulet, o inanimate protector.

Misplaced Encounter

for s

Our hands shook under stairs.
Under cover of stars, you told me
You were drunk, asked for a hug.
In the morning I evaporated.
You refused the memory.
Since then I’ve been transfixed,
Endlessly seduced, helplessly enthralled.
I wait up nights for you to make good.
I dream tangled curls and barbed glasses.
I flatten, grow dim for want of you.

Through the Mail

A box arrived with an Iowa postmark and bearing a long letter sealed with wax. She
drew a picture of the small figure she had included- it was like a hamster or a gerbil,
she said, but also something entirely imagined. Already on the voyage its long tail
had split into sections. I stared into the scratches marking its eyes and could not bear
to name it and make it knowable. Now it sits on my school desk, legs curled beneath
its flank, and waits for the day to come when I will need comforting. Clay emblem.

In Poland My Father Saw a Poster for a Band Called Iowa Super Soccer

Leather couches crowd
the town square, where
young people swill
hand-crafted draft beers,
sneer at onlookers,
argue about chess.
On the sidewalk my
bearded and sunscreened father
catches scraps of passing scenes
in flashes of light.
The cobbled brick of the street
assaults his feet.
The lamppost pummels him
with rococo brassiness.
The wind swirls talk in a foreign tongue
around the camera,
which glints in sun like a sword.

An Ode to Prairie Dogs

Unclasping your small hand from that of your mother, you waddle toward the squat
tunnel entrance. On all fours now, you crawl down and the sound of feet- stamping,
aboveground, insistent- reverberates through tight passages. In unlit parts they wail
and lament, those baby-bodied boys younger even than you. You squirm up a rough-
hewn pathway, rubbing raw soft palms and knees. When you reach the last platform
day pierces unpeeled retinas. You peer out the thick glass streaked through with snot
and sweat, and watch as flabby torsos with ears pricked up dig holes and give chase.

Egret and Dove

we nest together til you wake
then you rise, flit room to room.
from the couch where I am sprawled
I catch the sounds of your trilling song.
I capture you in two hands- you
who are all soft feathers and thumping heart.
I clutch you dove to my breast,
feel you breathe, then rest.

Untitled spring poem

I never wanted your body more now that
I can’t have it. I would kiss every inch
of you. Slowly, deliberately, and name
it. Your neck. Behind your right ear.
Your calves. We would both shudder,
a little, to discover how terrible our need
was. On the bed. Against the wall. I
would take you. See how beautiful
you are in the half-light? Do you see
how great my love is?

Through Mail

A box arrived with the mended teapot and a long letter sealed with wax. She
drew a picture of the clay figure she had included- it was like a hamster or
a gerbil, she said, but also entirely imagined. Already its long tail had split
into sections. I stared into the scratches marking its eyes and could not bear
to name it and make it knowable. Now it sits on my school desk, legs curled
beneath its flank, and waits for the day to come when I will need defending.

Bury

The summer field feels itself lost.
Engulfed in snow it becomes something lonelier.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
But my self absconded. Slipping through your fingers.
Lidded eyes and limp wrists were left.
After you pierced my flesh and fished me through the cold,
I writhed and blubbered.
After you reeled me in,
You packed me under deadening whiteness. To preserve me, you claimed.
The summer field, all prairiegrass and blackeyed Susans,
Has its many tasks, extending its palette past its boundaries.
The winter field submerges all else.
For those dear hours, I was annihilated.
And my body, a sold thing no longer,
Which you have long loved well-
Gossamer though it was-
Did not love you. Fleeting filament of light.

About a Girl

sometimes things just happen to you
what just happens to you?
you know. things.
like poetry, or love, or remembering the time you walked barefoot over cold stone in India on your way to breakfast?
like when you saw that boy and you weren't in love with him any longer. you didn't want to tell him and admit you ever had felt that way.
I want to watch that movie so terribly. it would make everything make sense, the way the dialogue careens and the hand burns.
if you would text me first
if you would only
I just like the way these keys feel, the way the lids close slowly over my eyes and I don't have to fight it
I like the way I like you, you being the thing I want.
the thing that happened to me is meeting you drunk and wanting something out of that
when you don't remember,
what is there to remember?
is anything experienced, lived, felt?
ambulation, laughing in my sleep for you
the black razor of my phone implores me, you're so close.
always at my fingertips, won't you bring your hips to me?
I like your glasses and your hair.
I just like you I hope it's not a problem.

Three Meditations on a Lamp

I.
At night the sky is dusty with too much snow falling.

The deer come up to the birdfeeder to eat. There is never enough food.

This is not a metaphor for the cold snap of missing you.

II.
Knowing you wait up nights under the same sky, working by a single lamp, straining your eyes--
Knowing you want sex, take airplanes, wonder about god--
it is not enough.

III.
Your tongue in my ear, transmitted over telephone wires, you read me children's books.

I meditate on cranberries, gratitude.

I fall wordlessly, lovingly, into your being, into being you, into nonsense raucous iridescent love.

Addendum

It is entirely possible that you could grow disinterested

stalk past me on my way to class and not utter a word

never raise your eye when I enter a room

and for weeks I would not know I had lost your favor

For Aaron

For Aaron

I would not hesitate to call you my friend.

Today you waved in a most undignified manner as you sped past me on your bicycle.

There is something baffling in you.

Once I went to your dorm to borrow your clothing, and found it amusing and disconcerting that we wear the same size, in women's and men's.

I consider it quite likely that I weigh more than you do.

Sometimes I see you and cannot speak for minutes.

I wouldn't hesitate to call you a friend.

Untitled 97

The poem that was more like the Jackson Pollock painting I made with my eyes shut while I listened to the CD for the boy who will never hear it.

The poem that was more like the wall keeping everything from crashing down on me, keeping my eyes from closing while I slouch deeper into this chair.

The poem that was more like the sound of the television blaring, imposing upon me with its clamor and racket, the poem that wouldn't stop and refused to obey etiquette.

The poem that was more like my bed where I couldn't rest, not yet, because somehow the night is young. The poem that understood me and all my longings.

The poem that was more than a poem, the poem that was my life and then just the sensation, only, of this laptop resting on my body, my fingers stroking this keypad, these keys, and striving to send some message out to the stars. The poem that was this.

The poem of today, yesterday, and the day I go back home. The poem of returning, of journeys and of newness. The poem of summer and wonder. The poem of bread and popsicles, the poem of free verse association, and the poem of India, the poem of home, the poem of my hands are shaking, the poem of will someone know that I was here, the poem of will I have any impact. The poem.

Daytrips

I want to be free, and dumb
In a flapping vintage old dress that doesn't reach my knees,
And tights. Black, or blue maybe tights that you wore
Under the purple dress I lent you. You
Said you would not be taken for a girl.

Let's go to St. Armand's.
On a pier we will lick ice creams,
Pale twig legs radiating sunlight, and toes
Curled above the blue-green surface.
Let's go back and forth all day on the ferry.


Dumbly.
Youngly.

Love Song of A. Simone Rose

Once our little dance has ended,
Young romance begun to gray,
And the visions that I harbored
Show their frailty and give way-

There will still be your lips.
There will still be that loose curl of hair that, even now, you are brushing back into place.
There will still be your eyes. Dark like a wooden bracelet,
Like the edge of the sea where seeing stops.
There is nothing more, here.
There is nothing left for me to take.

Untitled

Nothing happens. No one says anything.

Three beds are in the room and one orange
tiger rug is in the room and a healthy
pink orchid is in the room and you sat
in the room and yr long dangling legs were
in the room and I was perched on my
bed across from you in the room and I
thought about running my tongue up yr
leg in the room and then you'd stop
talking about yr fucking ex-boyfriend
in the room and you'd stop getting
drunk and singing badly off yr balcony
and I'd figured out what the hell it is
I'm doing in the room but we just look
at each other in the room and the walls
are white in the room and the floor
is dirty in the room and my broken
lamp is in the room.

No one happens. Nothing says anything.