Carmen 56

My father was a fisherman
and his father was a fisherman
and my son would have been a fisherman
but there are no more fish,
the wind makes waves of salt,
the sea has disappeared.

Autobiography no. 31

This old man at work today noticed Il Canzoniere set over to the side
and he asked if I was reading Petrarch for school, and I laughed.
Before I could stop myself I said,
"No, I don't go to college. I've got a broken heart though."
He looked moderately thoughtful for a moment,
then I counted out his change
and he got in his car and pulled away.

Autobiography no. 30

Whenever I see a chessboard,
I reflexively envision my father
as I knew him long ago,
when he was a giant and I wanted to understand him.
In those days my father and his youngest brother
kept in touch principally through the writing of letters,
each of which contained the algebraic notation of the next move
in their game of chess.
Of course the postal service works on its own time
and a game commonly ends in around forty moves,
so a year could pass
dedicated to playing a single game on dozens of pieces of paper
while they lived a thousand miles apart,
and I staring at it all enraptured, reading books about chess
and trying to guess what opening my uncle would attempt
after the current game came to an end.
Now they both have technology in their pockets
that would let them play instantly with each other from across the globe,
but I do not think they use their phones for chess,
and they no longer send the letters.
I think about this.

The First of the Line

The tree is going to die soon.
I did not have it very long.
It is the second tree of this genus and species that I have owned.
The first I killed on purpose years ago in a slow rage-
I kept it by my bedside as it withered without water.

This tree got ants early on.
The ants came for the aphids, which came for the flowers,
which came out to try to kiss the sun as it arced above.
I put poison on the windowsill but that was not enough to dissuade them
and because I was not willing to poison every inch of the room
I put the tree outside in the sweltering heat of Arkansas summer.

I watched as the days went by
and the mercury in the thermometer climbed
thirty degrees Fahrenheit above the tree’s acceptable range.
I watched my tree defy its new environment for a time,
then fail to thrive.
I watched the fresh green shoots of spring die,
I watched the dove-white flowers torn apart by a thousand insects.
I watched the leaves shrink away desiccated,
their brown bodies thinner and thinner with each passing hour,
and tonight I watched their shadows flicker on the ground
while my tree’s last chance at life
floated away in a cool breeze beneath the light of the moon.
It would have lived if I could have accepted ants inside my room.

Crawl

I could start out trying to explain the way I feel inside about working for a living, about being degraded and disrespected, about never having enough for someone else because I never had enough for myself, but that kind of thing stings like chlorinated water in my eyes so instead I’ll fall into a metaphor some silly idea like being in a swimming pool brightly lit and deeper than my feet can reach and there’s a million or a billion people in here with me but there’s room enough for everyone. When is the first moment I noticed that this pool contained a race? Was it the report of a shotgun making the grass tremble and the birds flee the trees? The tug of a fish trying to escape and knowing that he could reach cool and peaceful depths if only he had not bitten the worm first? I realize that everyone is competing and that I have been in competition all along. I size them up quickly and determine that I am swiftest, but my thought is stopped by reality just beyond the the gate. I eagerly press forward then feel sharp teeth gnaw upon my limbs. I frantically attempt to free myself but I cannot. What are these shackles upon me? Is this iron that delays me? No, it is not iron, no element alone made this chain upon my ankles, and I am suddenly sure that no one above water can see the device that holds me here. It pulls me down. Everyone else is racing but I know I am going to die, and still the people in the stands are cheering. I gasp for air. I cannot do this any longer. Surely someone will jump in to help me. They will swim to me and embrace me, breathing deep, kicking up, saving me from certain doom and letting my lungs fill once more. Before they drown they will look down and see the skulls beneath my feet.

Sol

When I am am incensed at the heat of a day,
I rage against the entire sun
and
not the single ray that brought sweat to my brow.

By the time my curse has finished the ray is gone
and the sun remains.

Why can I not remember that?

Savannah Smiles

I was in love with her at least a little bit and she knew it
but I was polite enough to never say anything,
which may not have mattered to her
but sure as hell felt necessary to me.

I tried to stay out of her business
but so many days I saw her with tears in her eyes
that I had not put there—
and I wanted to rush over to her
and move a tear away with my thumb
and then brush my hand against her cheek,
gently rotating her face so that she was looking up at me
and I would tell her that it would be okay
and she would believe me.

One day I was eavesdropping on her
and I heard her say that she was hungry.
I made an excuse and made my way over to her and I asked
what her favorite kind of Girl Scout cookie was
and she looked gratified and confused and told me
and on my break I went and I got her a box
and I was too embarrassed to bother her to give it to her
so I got someone else to give her the cookies instead.

I got home and went into my room
and flicked my knife open with my right thumb.
I cut through thin plastic and cardboard
and sat down in my chair
thinking about the day.
I took a cookie from the packaging
and bit down.
I reveled in the crisp stolen pleasure
of finally knowing
what it was like to be something she adored.