Troubadour Song
I woke this winter morning
to the smell of the sea
and hummed a song for nothing,
how nothing came to me.
I dreamed I mounted a horse
along an empty beach
where we galloped far away
‘til I was out of reach.
We trotted past the lighthouse
abandoned on the dunes
and paused by a small stable
that was now in ruins.
I woke this winter morning
to the smell of the sea
and made a song for nothing,
how nothing came to me.
We rode to the starkest edge
of nowhere, by the sea.
The horse was all that remained
of what I’d longed to be.
We had somewhere deep to rest
and nothing left to see,
and so the two of us walked
into the cemetery.
I woke this winter morning
to the smell of the sea
and sang a song for nothing,
how nothing came to me.
To Poetry
Don’t desert me
just because I stayed up last night
watching The Lost Weekend.
I know I’ve spent too much time
praising your naked body to strangers
and gossiping about lovers you betrayed.
I’ve stalked you in foreign cities
and followed your far-flung movements,
pretending I could describe you.
Forgive me for getting jacked on coffee
and obsessing over your features
year after jittery year.
I’m sorry for handing you a line
and typing you on a screen,
but don’t let me suffer in silence.
Does anyone still invoke the Muse,
string a wooden lyre for Apollo,
or try to saddle up Pegasus?
Winged horse, heavenly god or goddess,
indifferent entity, secret code, stored magic,
pleasance and half wonder, hell,
I have loved you my entire life
without even knowing what you are
or how—please help me—to find you.
The Keening
All morning he heard a faint thrumming
In the distance, a wail, a wild cry—
Atonal, primitive—
Almost too far away to hear,
A frequency nearly beyond us now,
Yet ours alone.
All morning he tried to blot it out
And follow the news breaking
Like a fog over the day,
But he kept hearing it rising
And coming closer, a chant,
A plea from the dead
Suddenly burning inside him,
One of the grief-stricken ones,
Wearing a button-down with a tie
And walking the hall with a notebook
As if he belonged here, as if
He had something else to report.
I Was Never Able to Pray
Wheel me down to the shore
where the lighthouse was abandoned
and the moon tolls in the rafters.
Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.
I was never able to pray,
but let me inscribe my name
in the book of waves
and then stare into the dome
of a sky that never ends
and see my voice sail into the night.
Black Rhinoceros
The Black Rhinoceros at Brookfield Zoo
Eating sweet potatoes, carrots, and bread
Looked like my uncle’s extended family
Crowding around the table at Thanksgiving.
Mrs. Movehill suddenly started crying
On the second-grade bus, which often stalled,
And the next day we had a substitute teacher
Who said that rhinos have poor eye-sight
And swivel their tube-shaped ears in all directions
So they can hear their enemies approaching, lions
And people who carve their horns into daggers
Or mash them into pain relievers.
My parents bought my shoes on discount
At Wolinsky& Levy, and so whenever I raised
Either foot my sole said “Damaged.”
That’s why I kept my feet close to the floor.
When Mrs. Movehill returned, she wore dark
Dresses and told us that the Black Rhinoceros
Is the same muddy color as the White Rhinoceros,
Which is strange, if you think about it, and we did.
What does it feel like to have two horns
Tilting up on a huge head, Mr. Rhinoceros?
You lumber around in your skin of armor
Like an exiled general or a grounded unicorn.
Everyone knows that a pachyderm in peril
Would still rather live in the open savannah.
We can’t tell if you are trumpeting forward
Or backward in your scrubby house.
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