Witness

Written in glass-soaked lust, a girlfriend

Described with pride and in stride, her boyfriend:

How he changed the brake pads, built a swing

From the old oak with a heart,

How his mission and multitude always pulled

From seas of confidence, steadfast in their winds;

And my heart screams, "I could, too, if only a chance!"

"Maybe I could, too…" as scream morphs to whisper,

For a lack of a listener, a failing of fitness,

There remains no witness.

 

All that I've built with my hands is the same

As the crash in the forest that no one heard;

And when I go to my long home, will the fallen timbre

Tell a story to dry passersby and the lustrous

Rainwater gypsies—"What happened here?" they will say,

"Not much, I suppose. I'll continue on my way."

There is no consolation gift, no pittance

For one without a witness.

 

I've dreamed, and loved, and failed;

And ten thousand failures and a handful

Of raptures, and failure to derail

Until time squeezed juice still tart

From what Nature declared was past its time;

I poured a cold glass with love and lime,

Mortared the workdays, savoured the sublime,

And rested in oubliettes of outer space.

 

And I desired a witness for my penance,

For my remembrance, and my sentence—

Like sweet water dives from moss-scented rock,

On Tuesday let me fall to the lagoon,

Collapse in the dew of a flower,

Pour bourbon over my nose and drown.

I will smile out loud at the river Styx,

Beat Charon at cards, and tour the town.

 

***

 

I craved a lover with amber essence,

Not acquiescent, but roaring with fire

In her tesseract mind. And she builds,

And solders, and smolders, and lives with

Fury that makes the crowd exhale: "Goddamn."

And she’ll testify when I die, "I did witness.

He changed the brake pads, and so did I.

We were a team; we washed with pumice,

And made cherry pie, and for my life,

He also testified...that I am fierce."

 

So shall the Puck pull at his lashes

At last, before moon fever and winter fast

To confess he sprinkled just a little bit

Of fairy mojo on us. He'll walk his way

With a smile, and say "He was cautious, but wild.

But also lucky I came along, because he couldn't

Hold a tune, write a song, touch her heart

Without my assistance; the forest is my witness."

 

And with that vision of derision,

I'll take my medicine, sleep another hour,

Before a silent blanket overtakes me with the workday,

Where I'll dream of streams and gorges and sunlight

Beyond the time when I last atoned, and a question,

Unanswered: "Will I find a witness?

Or will I die alone…when nurses forget 

Their own footsteps? Will I die in a room that's cold?"

 

I'd rather be ripped by a lion under clouds;

I'll take the fear and burning bright of day;

I'd rather bleed and paint the soil red

With my face ablaze under noon pool sky

Than lie in that bed alone as nurses walk by

(Walk to and fro as Daniel said), lost in duty

Amid waves of cosmic rays and galactic song,

As I decay witness-less until all is gone.

Dark Wine Memory

In listless afternoons

She'd knit language, calm as a still water;

And like a smith, she'd hammer silver,

Bringing hopes to life in a glistening stream.

She'd foot the deck boards if our ship swayed,

Leaning for rope and sail,

While I envisioned a gaunt house in a valley,

Without deep-rooted claim to call war.

I could scarcely understand witchcraft—

That of her hands and heart:

Bold, luminous, efflorescent before our fire

With her cheek pressed like warm rain on my chest.

She found her nails just sharp enough

To break off a piece of her skjaldmær soul,

While I worshiped the dream forge, and loved her—

My hallowed—my raven-song labyrinth of dark wine.

And though now she holds another,

I sometimes stare through the handmade convexity

Of a rum lens,

And the rocking gait of my maiden ship,

Resting in melody and might,

Like her arms were once around me

As a womb of sun flare

In the sovereign twilight of a dying world.

As I Move Off

As I move off to create worlds,

Let me pass through the oceans of Neptune's blue;

Let me spin out gravity from my mind's eye

And accelerate through a contraction of warped space.

Let me dry between the stars

And pull the frost from my eyes through

The vivisection

Of an accretion disk.

Forward, toward adjacent binaries

And over a billion parsecs,

I'll lift the arms of the celestial,

Compress gaseous fire,

Ignite a dream, wake an archangel,

For ten or twenty orbs of primordial ooze.

I'll lean back against the boundary

In a clockwork cosmos

And burn a billion years asleep, waiting

For Lords of the new world.

I'll pummel the dune sand

Into coagulating bullion.

I will teach the way a god song

Pulls into existence, salt and soul,

Horizon blaze and a kiss,

And the gift to be heirs.

That Time I Broke Into Jail, or How I Became a Coward

I confess: the title is a little dramatic. I wouldn't say I broke into jail in the strict sense of the word—perhaps there’s a better way to describe it. But “broke into jail” is the phrase other people tend to use after I’ve told the story; it's usually something along the lines of, "Wow, I never heard of anyone breaking into jail before!" It gives me a slight warm and fuzzy feeling, like the years of my youth weren't entirely boring. But enough about the title...

I had good parents. I grew up in what was probably considered a decent neighborhood. My family didn't have a lot of money, but we did alright. Unfortunately, there weren't many kids to play with in my small neighborhood, so I made friends with those in an older neighborhood, which was separated from mine by a fold of trees. There was a narrow dirt path that went through said trees, and I'd ride my bicycle down it, often barely missing the tight press of trees and limbs confining the path. Leaving my neighborhood was a rush of wind and pulse, and I enjoyed the simple taste of freedom that two wheels and exercise in the great suburban outdoors brought me.

The kids in the adjacent neighborhood were not like me. I couldn't put it into words then, but they seemed to be more fearless, harder, less worried about consequences or what danger the day may bring. In fact, I think some of them lived for that danger. They didn't seem to care about getting hurt, getting in trouble, or much of anything at all. And while I liked adventure, I was cautious. I knew I didn't quite fit with them. And I’d probably be off in saying they fully accepted me, but they let me hang out and were only dicks on occasion (as was I).

When I first saw the movie, “A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints”, which is based on a book by Dito Montiel, it gave me a familiar feeling of not quite fitting in with the crowd I grew up with. I wouldn’t dare compare my childhood to the experiences in that movie, but there was a vague familiarity. I could probably write an entire book on my childhood and the friends I had back then, but to be honest, I don't really like thinking about most of it. So that said, I'll fast forward to the title.

I was around 18 when I went to visit my friend, Jeff (name changed), in the county jail. He wasn't the first friend I visited in jail, and by the time this particular trip came around, I already knew my way around the jail visitor halls fairly well. I went with his mother, who was a nurse and a hard working lady. I had a lot of respect for her, and sometimes wondered why Jeff struggled so much in finding a life path (if only I had known at the time the irony in wondering that, since my own path has proved quite difficult to uncover). But whatever the case, Jeff found his way into the confines of our county jail, which as I heard from another friend who previously stayed there, was a collective of people preaching the gospel around tables while watching reruns of Soul Train.

In order to visit someone at the jail, I had to be put on their visitation list at least 24 hours in advance. Jeff didn’t know I would be coming with his mom that day, so he didn't think to put me on his visitation list. When we arrived at the jail, they let her go back, but they wouldn't let me. My emotions flared at this perceived injustice, because after all, I only wanted to visit my friend. Where was the evil in that? And in my younger years, I had less understanding of my emotions, so they had a tendency to have too much rule over my actions. Being that was the case, my mind's gears started turning; I examined my surroundings. There was a locked steel door in front of me, which gave access to the jail halls. It had a fairly sturdy lock, which I considered trying to pick with my Swiss Army Knife, or whatever I had on me—I can't recall. But there was also a recessed guard watch post that was down about half a story so that there was a window at floor level, where a guard could watch from ground-up anyone who went through the door. He would look over at me from time to time, as I stood suspiciously close to that door. I felt my adrenaline start to pump when I decided I was just going to go through it the next time it opened for someone else. And so when my opportunity came, I grabbed the door before it could close, and then I hauled ass.

Right as I went through the door, I saw the guard jump up and try to shout something at me as he went for a phone. I hauled ass down the jail halls as fast as I could, through a couple flights of stairs, and finally to the visitation room where Jeff and his mom were. Visitors and inmates were separated by the standard glass and telephone communication system, and there were stainless steel stools for people to sit on. I ran over beside Jeff's mom, and I crouched down beside her, as to remain hidden as well as I could from the guards.

I got my chance to talk to my friend. We talked for at least a minute or two, and I can still remember both Jeff and his mom being utterly amused and surprised that I "broke into jail". The visit was short-lived, though, as three deputies quickly tracked me down. As I remained crouched down, I can still remember the force with which one of them poked me in the shoulder blade. I stood up, and they escorted me out of the visitation room. They gave me a brief lecture in the hallway about how if they ever saw me at the jail again, I wouldn't be just visiting. I also remember seeing the guard behind the window again as I was walked out. He gave me a stare of death, as if I had just killed his cat.

I walked to my car with my pulse still slamming. I had to take several deep breaths and reflect on what just happened, on what I just did. I knew it could have gone a completely different way—a worse way, as could so many things in my life. I was thankful it didn't.

I never shared this story with family, or with people who weren't in that circle of friends. I didn't think they'd understand, I figured they'd say it was stupid and get visibly upset over something that was already said and done. And they're right...it was stupid. The nice thing about being 18 is you're still allowed a few stupid mistakes. Once you reach adulthood and then get into your 30's, the consensus of society is far less forgiving. But sometimes I wish I could be that way again. I don't imagine it's uncommon for anyone to wish for the carefree days of youth to come back. We felt brave back then, but only because we thought we had less to lose. We felt strong back then, but only because we didn't have that much to lift. And I, for one, miss the self-perceived courage I had when approaching a girl I liked, or in quitting a shitty job and taking off to Chicago, because fuck it, we were young and not meant to be chained to a desk quite so soon. Or the carefree feeling walking down those cold streets of Chicago in the winter in flip flops and a t-shirt with a bottle of Glenlivet in my hand, because hell, I was immune to the cold when my hair still went down to my chin.

How can I be brave in my old age, and not be stupid? How can I take risks that matter, and how can I identify them? These questions spin through my head, now that I've got a job and bills, and now that all those old neighborhood friends are long gone. There's just nothing quite like feeling alive when your pulse starts racing. The trick is to get it to race for something that matters. And that's a good damn trick.

Once Upon a Time in Chicago

You closed the chipped screen door,

As brass and lacquer slept,

Hidden from their old shine.

Your motion was smooth jazz in the ryegrass,

And I pictured the uncolored terrain of Oak Lawn,

Dilapidated, with broken little houses, scuffed brick,

And an essence of splendor withheld.

I wanted to take you from Archer Avenue,

Into the forest of high steel,

Beyond the industrial district,

Where Tomak, the Polish guitarist,

Strummed for metal and folded paper.

I remembered the slam poet at the Green Mill

Who said some motherfucker smashed his face on a sidewalk.

He was bold like wicked asphalt,

And I thought, "What lightning must live in that guy?"

Notes of the city tingled in the fray,

Arousing aortic pulse deep within my gut—

I craved heart to birth dense magic,

Before I climbed your high rise with fire roses,

Pulling thunder from the lungs of the city,

And rising from canyons of mortar and cement.

Your mouth tasted the way lavender smells,

While the DJ's spun vinyl through our walls,

And you spoke like magma,

Welling up in burning fragrance from your center—

"A woman should only let a man touch her body

After he's touched her heart and mind."

We poured warm tremolo into our veins,

You with green glass held cold to your lips,

I clutched my bottle of Glenlivet,

And the streets dripped with grit and fire.

We moved through boiling city lights,

Becoming rhythm in the dark hours, like hot-night-salsa,

Tension in our arms, passing each street corner

With a cross body lead.

The glitter of Lakeshore spiced the shine of our eyes,

Before we planted our dry feet on the waterline.

My hands baked into your warm skin,

While your fingers slept in mine,

And we glided like molten silver,

Cutting rivers through charcoal and coarse canvas,

Bringing fruit and flower to moonlight,

As we stitched ourselves deep into the black.

(Originally published in The Auburn Circle, Fall 2013.)

Soraya M, As She Ascends

"There was a stone in my son's hand,

And it left the fingers that once graced my cheek.

It moved at me with such speed

That it pierced my heart before it ever ripped my flesh;

My world spun about me, my intentions became red vapor.

The hand that I longed to touch,

The wispy kisses that were like grains of sugar in my dreams,

All before me, I saw them fall into the void.

"The crowd soaked with bloodlust,

And I, so naïve in my gifted innocence...

Did they ever say they knew Soraya?

Was my heart such a mystery before God?

And my lucidity forgotten, the air around me vibrating,

Stale, tasteless,

Except for the salt from my own dripping wounds,

And the light losing color as screams sloshed like waves.

"I was a wife—I remember my wedding day,

I remember my anxiousness

To give myself to my darling,

My hero, my lover, my accuser, my hater...

And then there was guile on his tongue,

Smoke on his singed lips,

And a black crust around that pitiful waste

That beat in his chest.

"When I was a little girl,

My eyes were bright, the infinity surrounded me,

And it caressed my soft skin;

It was butterfly wings on my tender optimism;

The glow from the morning ebbed with my age,

As my face matured, and my hands grew strong.

"Now, the dust has choked my throat,

The rich dark blood in my hair that was once

My glorious covering,

And I, alone in destitution of spirit,

Embraced in all senses of pain,

Can find only solace in the hint of a hereafter.

"I wish for my new world,

A world where my hero would come,

Where I am not a harlot for wanting a warrior,

And my wild feminine heart is pursued;

I wish for any place with a gentle presence,

Where I am no longer alone.

"I wait for my last breath, my last heartbeat;

I wait for my world to dim,

For my sons to vanish from my scarred and foggy eyes;

I wait for the absence of vile humanity.

As I look at the men, the cowards of my life's kingdom,

I pray for the lost.

"As I gasp and choke on the tinny copper of my brain's blood,

I dreamt that a man was ever born.

I thought I knew so many, knew vibrant and leathered strength,

But I was the courted fool, surrounded by empty shells,

Hollow souls, and dead souls, still lingering in the world,

Bathed with fear, spiced heavy with lust, depraved, without love.

"If I am guilty,

It is of not loving myself,

If I am a whore,

It is because I lay passionately with hope for their hearts;

My sons—my beautiful boys, bent to their father.

I pray my death will give them tears,

River guides that bring them home to know,

I forgive them with my whole being."

(Originally published in The Auburn Circle, Fall 2013.)

To Lily, The Lotus

I named you Lily. You’re older than me and you’re my sister. There must have been a dark sky on the day you were born, gray ominous clouds covering the sun. And your mother, with eyes squinted, clenching the sheets under her, as she pushed you into this world, felt the pain that beauty requires. I don’t imagine her taking a nurse’s hand, I don’t imagine her own mother there. For an unknown reason, I imagine her alone. All I know is that my father wasn’t there—your father wasn’t there.

One night, some years ago, our father was sitting in his recliner, sipping his Jose Cuervo. He drinks it over ice, and his vision pierces into the liquid crystals of a large television. He talks to me when the commercials are on, when the television is on mute. He tells me brief stories about his two years in Korea. He was in the Air Force at the time, and while he was there, he learned to speak Korean. He tells me your mother’s name, and while I can’t remember it, I believe it would begin with ᄇ. He doesn’t say much about her. It’s his way. He doesn’t say much about anything that he loves deeply.

In my whole life, he only mentioned you once, he only mentioned you that night. He told me, after he was back in the United States, he received a letter from your mother. In the letter, she told him that you had died. He might have mentioned during childbirth, but he also said he didn’t know if he believed her, and that she may have simply told a lie to relieve him from any obligation, being that he was now separated by an ocean and a continent. If you survived, I don’t know what your mother would have told you about our father. I sometimes wonder, even as I do now, while writing to you. Did she tell you he was a good man? Did she even live long enough to tell you anything at all?

A little girl needs to know her father adores her. A little girl, as she spins about the room in her first dress, needs to know she is lovely. And I wonder if you had a father figure to let you know that. Did you grow up feeling loved? Because if I had a way to tell you anything at all, it would be that you are loved, even from across an ocean and a continent, even from across the years that have passed.

You are my older sister. So many times, I wish you’d been there when I was growing up. Before I ever knew you existed, I wished I had an older sister. I was raised an only child and I know your advice could have guided me through a lot that I had to learn the hard way. I could have asked you about women, how to talk to the ones I liked, how to ask out the first girl I liked in high school—her name was Dana. But more importantly I could have asked you how to not  screw things up after she said yes.

I am your younger brother. I’m ashamed to say, I knew nothing of value growing up that I could have imparted on you. You probably would have teased me for the many stupid things I said and did. But you would have been present, and so would I. And this world, which can be frightening when we’re on the precipice of a new journey, would have felt a little less scary.

Is it cliché to say we share the same blood? Probably, but we share more than what runs through our bodies. We share a common origin, a bright star in the spirit, authored by the same hand. In our father’s secret thoughts, he must think of you. I know I would, were I a father. And I wonder if he would name you, as I have named you.

He might name you heart, song, and wine. Or he might name you the flower that stays hidden in a field that one cannot remember the way back to. In his mind, on those nights when the tequila bottle has drained just a little too much, he may call you those things without words, and he may remember the air of your home country, gliding into his lungs, cleansing him richly as smoke in deep green prayer houses. I picture him walking the streets of Seoul, the alien language encompassing his younger eyes, and the beauty before him so vast that it led to you.

My sister, do you know you are loved?

I named you Lily for simplicity. But your name may be 수영. Or your mother may have given you a western name. Perhaps you are Esther or Jenny. Our father may have thought up similar names in his mind. But I believe in his heart, you are named something else entirely: Amethyst and Emerald and the glow therein, Lilac, and Hyacinth, and Rose. To him, you’re the smell of a lotus, alone in a field. And in those visions, where love is painted in large swirls of deep color, you are named all things beautiful.

Our father was adventurous in his youth. He has hundreds of skydiving jumps (I just have one) and he used to do large air formations with other skydivers. He rode motorcycles and wrecked one badly many years ago, which put him in the hospital. He also broke a bone in a hard landing on one of his skydiving jumps. I can’t recall which accident was responsible, but one of his legs in now slightly shorter than the other, so he has to wear a lift in his shoe. And for a time he lived in Guam, where he became a proficient scuba diver. His eyes have seen much more than my own. So I can only weakly imagine what he sees in those silent moments when he sees you. He must have named you—something that remains hidden in him, that only he knows.   

When I was younger, I had friends of all sorts because there was never one group with which I fully fit. Among my friends were Sung and his sister, Young. She chose the western name Karyn later in her life. When their parents invited me for dinner, I felt I was entering part of a special world. They taught me about Korean foods, taught me to use chopsticks, and Young got me listening to Korean music. Do you know 신승훈? I use to listen to his 4^th album, and I learned many of the words, even though I understood nothing. I told myself I would learn Korean, but being your lazy younger brother, I only got as far as the alphabet and a handful of words.

I often hung out with Sung and his sister after high school let out. Sometimes we would drive down to a Korean comic book and video store just outside of Atlanta. Sung could browse for hours, but I would get bored, just staring at all of the symbols that I wished I understood. There was a Korean-owned Chinese restaurant below the store, and we’d go down there to eat. Since I was white, they always gave me a fork. I was the only one at the table who got a fork. I would say, while holding the fork, “I swear…this is a racial thing,” and Sung and his sister would laugh. You would have liked hanging out with us.

I wanted to ask our father about you again, but I haven’t. And I know I never will. Because relationships between men and their fathers are complicated, like relationships between women and their mothers are complicated, like relationships of any kind are…complicated.

In truth, even if you are alive, I don’t know that you’d be in Korea. You could have left a long time ago. I did an internet search a while back and tried to find you, given the limited clues I had. I found one possible match living in the United States and I wrote her an email. I never got a reply. I suppose I never really had much to go on. But in the absence of knowing your well-being, I let a simple prayer be enough.

My sister, wherever you are, I pray that you know you’re loved.

I know you were once real. You breathed the oxygen of your homelands and exhaled the carbon dioxide that must have found its way to the grass, to trees, to still life. And in turn, I wonder if in this endless process, that same air found its way over the seas. Did it pass through the place where I grew up? And did it pass into my own lungs, many years later? I breathe as you once breathed, may still breathe, and whether the same air or not, the spirit of a sister I have never known feels so close to me now.

You should know that your younger brother is a dreamer. I bounce from dream to dream, passing emerald city after emerald city, praying that the unknown dirt path and boundless horizon will eventually lead me where I belong. I know why I am the way I am, and perhaps why many dreamers are the way they are. I believe, what we fear most, is a world without magic. Such a world is governed only by the random, by chance, and by a few mathematical rules. In that world, younger brothers don’t find their older sisters. In that world, little girls don’t know their fathers and never get the chance. They never find out how much they’re loved.

If what your mother told our father was true, you left this world a long time ago. What happens after death is anyone’s guess. I like to believe we go on to create our own worlds. I like to imagine we have celestial bodies that move beyond the speed of light, put in motion by love. And finger tips of the divine, which spin out a galaxy like they were stirring little specks of burning metal, enter into us so that newness in all things is transcendent. And you, my older sister, will have been creating worlds for a while now. You’ll have to teach me how it is done.

My sister, do you know you are loved? If I can’t tell you in this life, I’ll tell you in the next.

I used to work for an airline, and I went solo to Honolulu one weekend without a plan. I got the idea on a Friday night and I was on a plane Saturday morning. I didn’t book a room. I just went, hoping I’d find a bed at a beach hostel. I did find one, but if I hadn’t, I would have slept on the beach. I remember lying in my hostel bed, which smelled of thousands of previous sleepers. And I stared out the small dirt-crusted window, up into the night sky. I could hear some of the people below me, down in the common area, laughing and making conversation. But up on my weak and thin mattress, with their voices distant to me, I was alone. If you’re alive, I hope you’re not like me. I hope you don’t feel alone in a crowd.

I like to imagine that you found happiness, perhaps working downtown in the heart of Seoul or Buson. And there you put on a business suit each day, your desk adorned with pictures of your own family, and your eyes always lit with confidence. Or perhaps you live in New York City and you walk the streets with an espresso drink. And there, you’re finally single and happy. Whatever your state in life, I imagine you strong and I imagine you pursuing the happiness that a wise man once said we should have the right to pursue. But hey, if I’m wrong and you’ve got twelve kids from five different guys and you work in a shirt factory putting pins in sleeves, you’re still my sister. And if we meet, we can just have coffee and talk about how we’re both incredible fuck-ups. We’ll smile, no matter what.   

I once read about the lotus lantern in Korean culture. I read that it’s suppose to symbolize the desire to awaken spiritually, to become a light to the world that shines to all those people that desperately need hope. And the lotus itself, in Buddhism, represents purity and our true nature. I am not a Buddhist, but I like these symbols. And should you still be alive, I hope that you sometimes think about the promise of a family you’ve never met. I hope you believe they wish that they could know you. But most of all, I hope you know that you’re loved.

Your younger brother,

롭 (Rob)

(Originally published in the Auburn Circle, Spring 2013. Minor revisions made.)

When You Held Your Daughter

I imagined your fingers calloused

From many old pricks where blood flowed.

Each year must have been a different saviour,

Distinct in its way and luster.

Your arms have hemmed dresses,

Lifted buckets of water,

Scrubbed the scrapes from your darling sun-pearl;

But you'd say it was God that drew in their accents.

You'd tell me your mother shaped your mind

So that your feet could stand under the weight of each day.

You'd never say you were crafted with the salt of sweat

Or the fury of your smile...

And what name could I give to that?

If your smile were mahogany or juniper or December,

Would it describe the force of your morning rising?

If it were honeysuckle or blueberry or cinnamon,

Would it describe your maternal embrace

When she lays, eyes closed, in your arms?

I've seen you sit, with eyes like old cavaquinho melodies,

With a mood like a campfire where the burning branches

Lifted up their own God-song to a place not as divine

As that which you feel when she's near you.

I examine the lines of your face,

And I could call them stone or saguaro or hot sun,

I could call your hammered hands the sacred moment

Of a different name, balanced on too many tongues.

And I know your own song that you've written in flesh

Is deep in your bones,

In your grip,

In your roots reaching deep into the earth.

(Originally published in The Auburn Circle, Fall 2012.)

Spanish Sun

It is not enough that I lay with you,

That our bodies move to surreptitious tempos;

I crave the source, melting your fingers into my bones,

Down where you once told me that

The skylines seemed to shift in tempo of rosewood claves,

From Bogota to Santiago to Buenos Aires,

Through your hot lands and warm bath rivers,

Even on a day’s trek from San Paulo to Rio de Janeiro.

I want to follow you home and see your treasured places,

The hills you roamed as a little girl,

The sky that you watched,

And the old tree that you wished upon for promise and family.

I want to gaze at the moon you loved, the constellations you know,

And the stirred speckles of stars beyond;

I want to travel the rolling roads on which you were made,

In light, birthed in clay and water before you first knew a kiss.

I want to feel my feet press in the pebbles

On the rural paths leading to your city.

I want to inhale your homelands, a rapture of fragrance and serendipity,

With the passion of the twinkling night, the warmth of air, the dances

Where you and your sisters spun and pirouetted, as stained glass ballerinas,

And you in later years,

Were found standing statuesque,

Lovely, with hands of dark grain and irises of rainforest.

On what day was it born?

That Bossa Nova beat in your walk?

When did you first shift your weight on your gritty city streets,

With music in each bend of your toes?

I know there was one Spanish Sun where,

Under its new day radiance, you went from girl to woman,

Adorned with gold and purple over the luster of your skin,

And a smile that wickedly ran with your indifference.

What can I say of you? You are cocoa and caramel—

And the sway of a rippled sunset glistening in magenta and fire.

You’re the hot ocean mating with the land, and deeply,

After darkness, you twirl as an unraveling shooting star.

I want to speak to you in your native tongue,

And taste your language in my saliva,

Feel the glowing images of your rich childhood

So that your blood might live in me.

It is not that I lack, that I desire you,

Nor is it that I seek completion,

But I want to know the heart of the Earth,

Far from the choking throes of civilization,

And you, like no other, dance with her, step for step;

You move together with her in a perfect samba,

So that with your cheek upon my chest,

We and the land melt inward, breathing as one body,

Waxing and waning,

As the immortal days and nights.

(Originally published in The Auburn Circle, Fall 2012.)

Dying Young

All blooms as right for fields and time,

The tempest left for wolves and night.

So shall lust slay at the last hour's chime

And the Sun will hide her loving light.

It is browning grass among songs and flowers

Where life passes for ground and clay.

In seasons' change and nocturnal showers

Will our spirits find their deepest way.

O, guides from stars above that burn,

In the morning so will they be gone

And life once was shall speak in tongues

Of sweet remembrances at dying young.

This poem is dedicated to my childhood friend Jarrett Davis who died too young at the age of 29, to my friend Jessica Pratt from UGA who lost her sister Elizabeth far too early, and to Christopher McCandless, whose death and story remind me daily that happiness is only real when shared.

Snow Leopard

My paws crack the icy crags,

Ascending along asymmetric stones

To cold canyons and cliffs

Where your scent warms my blood.

I tip-toe with tension and torrid

Senses, beyond your little ears—

Those rounded echoes of unawares,

Like the sun-fired plains I've not known.

You are magnificent to my low stature,

My stare embeds in the trace of your lines

And ages as untouched glass,

As my breath burns the night.

I hunt the ibex, through twilight

On the higher spires of Bhutan,

Though I crave not their flesh,

Nor sustenance for my flex.

I pass my narrow moments,

Forgetting my own footprints

While I trek alone,

Contemplating the flavors of your skin.

My mind is a winter azul with

Mantle-centered flame,

And my days, not perplexed

By trivialities of survival.

I want your cheeks,

Their uprisings and plateaus,

The black-rock lava

Of your onyx eyes.

I creep under the moon,

Desiring blankets of blind fragrance,

Swaying and catching,

With furious feel of the frosted soil.

And I carve each step down

In soft silent stealth,

Through dark furrows and hills,

Toward the drum of your pulse.