Tagged: the Water
Jump the River
watching kids play
Jump the River, which
is a game with two ropes
the kids line up, then
run at the “river”
& jump across it
each time the river
gets wider until the kids
are barely able to make it
some run their hardest then
stop abruptly at its edge
some throw their bodies &
roll for extra distance
some just cry –
too hard, no fair
later they will wade in
the creek. its banks
move apart like ropes
the water flow lessens
some of it abruptly stops
it gets warmer
the sunlight reaches lower &
blooms the algae
the tadpoles feel the urgency
the tepid water tells them
hurry up, get eaten
or get caught & held
their instruments still in
perfect spiral
our eyes take time to adjust
to decide if we are heading
towards, or away
either way we fall into it
then drop it
will we get word?
will it be fire? monsoon?
will we throw our bodies?
or stop abruptly
at its edge?
SWAT
woke up drenched again, not
dreams, not raining
who knows
there’s a resiny
imprint of me
on my mattress, myself laid
down over countless
others, like days
I go through what I ate, when
the withdrawal symptoms of
things like caffeine
pot, what I’m wearing
sleep positions, if
I should have showered
maybe my mattress is a valley
my blankets roads
I overheat, sweat
become cold, pull them up
to wake unsure
where the water came from
if it’s water at all, or
just salt
if while sleeping, I’ve
been swimming, and
barely made it back
Its Parallel Existence
Formerly of love appears
on grainy 90s television
She takes down my shorts by the pool
Her mouth is full of ice, if I remember, or
I tried to run
I remember my first kiss. I wiped it away
I remember I peed on a girl’s foot in line
to the diving board. If I saw her today, I’d maintain
it was dripping water, formerly
of ice, that it was unseasonably cold that day
not too cold
Snow untwisted from the curtain
Duck, dinosaur, contagion fused together
We had to get out of the pool
There is no end, it seems, to these
lines that never touch
Why Some People Make It
I feel the weight
of a very large decision
left open to me, like
a container in the snow
I lie to a park ranger about
the temperature back home. 110 degrees!
You lie to an old lady about
how long we watched a flip-flop
flip in the glacial rapids, caught
in a whirlpool, not emerging. At least an hour!
Persistence, I point out. Arbitrarily
pointed persistence
Here, you say, passing me a stone
feel how smooth
Fish Gardens
those fish were caught by men
with their feet in water
those fish were caught by men
with their feet on land
in the middle, a couple of babies
pose for their wedding pictures
her dress is lumpy, leguminous
like it is actually cauliflower
his has a pocket for his phone
everything outside their body
is light. literal, actual light
light is decided upon in the brain
the brain is a folded leaf
this is can turn into anything
imagine we are fish swimming
in a man made water system
never have the edges to things
been more clear
Poem for Someone Who Died
i put on my rain jacket, boots, roll
up my pants, step outside
i see myself in the window
of my dead neighbor’s house
now that his front wall has been knocked down
i can see more – the beggar’s lice, the
packages lying in its burrs like dogs
i see myself in the rain, too
how each wet streak is at a loss
for the likeness of those around it
how they explode, reach in all directions
run off together.
the construction workers pull
a tarp over their wood. they fire
the last few nails from their nail guns
it sounds as though there is knocking
on all of the houses. someone
is in each doorway saying
here. i saw this
and i thought of you
Frances
If you were like this all the time
I could stay, she said. I had just thrown
her body across the kitchen island
proceeded to kiss her everywhere
through her clothes
through her self
There is a thin layer of self
over everything. Plastic sheeting
covers whole neighborhoods. Hordes
of caution-taped men, marauding
Our skin the banks of a river
I remember going days
without drinking. I crawled out
to the river’s island, where the water
was clear and fast-moving, and I
let the water pour into my open mouth
My partner, who had gone
the same number of days
took out his knife and cut a stalk
of bamboo from the bank
He filled it up and stabbed
a hole in the bottom, to drink
from the steady drip
He did not trust what his body
wanted, which is everything,
which is to already have done
what is needed to do
Fish Could Mean a Thing to Say
it makes more sense
to pave
just two strips of driveway
or to drive on the lawn
repeatedly. one of my neighbors
threw a bunch of beer cans
down
and drove over those
now it’s flat, glinting
like scales
off a gut fish. they still add to it
a few Coors a night
during winter. sitting around
the campfire, cooking perch
the smell of a tree’s
tense changing
and i find it hopeful
that even
in this day
and age
there are still
hazardous settlers
we must burn
off our meat
and fish
to trick out of water
with string
This Whole Port City is a Boat…
… and the moon is looking
for stowaways. I hear
the white noise of water
the roaring of men’s stomachs
and blood that are lost to our ears
until found again, somewhere new
a captain listens to land
after months on the sea
the taverns creak on top
the gulls divide up
merchant ships and a careful
propeller of lighthouse light
swings, gaining speed. If light
were to leave our Earth somehow
it would do so like this; in a
slingshot before separating
at the sharp edge of space
my fingers have also separated
in the hair of pretty girls
at the edge they dissipate
it is all I can do to remember
their faces – two eyes, a nose
a mouth. I have forgotten
their sounds. I have nearly forgotten
the wine I stole and slipped
into my jacket sleeve. I walk
along the vessels, gargling
unable to christen them all
I find it familiar that boats
are made for water, but
built on top of the land
Submarine
I hate to admit that I like you
better with clothes on
that when you are naked
I look at the flats of your bone
the darkest muscles inside your mouth
I am a good deal plainer
Under my skin is black water
one dimly-lit submarine