Spring
I wish I could believe in spring
in newness and grass. I wish I could trust
god’s ventriloquism.
But I have seen too much rain
too many mudslides
and felt my own skin
rippled and scarred.
I’ve seen a scuttle fish in the mirror
in spite of a shower
that’s supposed to clean and renew me.
I am a lump of flesh
with a limited life, so Easter holds no
promise for me, no safe place
or day, because all of my life
borders unknown lands
and the white-crested waves
at the beach where I walk.
Spring Fire
Spring is a season and a prison where desires burn
unbidden. I hose down the brick patio, feel bad,
using water this way, but if I stop, dog shit sticks
to the bricks, with flies and maggots on the surface,
so I turn the jet on full force. Overspray beats
the night's dreams into a rainbow of water around
my feet, and I beat my way into the rhythm of the garden,
wet drop by wet drop. I remember the cadence of our days
together, lounging our way out of sex, you lean
and watery, picture of spring music, an unforgettable
season, yourself. How you loved bare walls, bare trees, our
bare limbs intertwined. Now, the labile sky changes,
cloud by cloud, rose bushes ruffle their petticoats, doves sing
a song I don't understand, and finches build nests
high in the bamboo. Iris bulbs push their leaves through
the soil beneath the plumeria, and the purple pansy in its pot
on the garden table raises its head in the breeze. I'm on fire —
all this color, all these birds, a single ridged shell
from a summer ago sitting on the edge of the fountain,
the ocean pounding against the sand in the distance.
I feel the same desire I did when you were a season,
and I was Spring.
Poems That Come in Spring
Poems that come in spring
are not hot like summer swimmers;
they don't bask in the sun
and some people would say
they are temperate, no kelvin scale in their skin.
They barely remember risky dives under water,
the time they kicked dead leaves on a sidewalk
or stood on top of a snow-covered mountain
on a couple of skinny boards.
They don't like to swim
they don't like pumpkins or Halloween
and they don't like ice-slick sidewalks.
They are happy to sit by a stream
count the bubbles on the surface
listen to fish gulp and smell wet grass.
Poems that come in spring are lonely.
Everything they know has blown away
or melted, or hasn't come yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment