Six Poems
No Translation. Our neighborhood flock of geese
creaks home to their pond at dawn. Their Tibetan
clamor leaves me iceberg still, a poem catching
in my throat, something like the one that blew off
the top of Emily’s head. Shiver of a Yes opening
and closing on clouds, the bird’s straight neck a
plunging exclamation mark. Argue about trope or
measure as you will, about breath or turn of the
line. You can’t command the fit or will the heart
to latch onto that slow flap. Through a window
you follow a dark ballet, then spend all morning
translating wings onto a page.
Poem to Save Your Life. Sung by a gnat
who lands on the under-carriage moments
after the metal thunder. Rant of chlorophyll
leaving the reddened leaf. Syllabic hum in a
plate washed, brief descant of running
water. Squeak of wet hands. In a poppy’s
flanged bowl a net of light, ringing color
that splashes the hue of poppy in wave-
strings on a retina, a new ding on the eye’s
inner dish. It rhymes with a blue and white
bowl of limes on the sill. This morning she
scours and swishes, song-salving what
rhymes with wishes.
Poem to Write on Your Birthday. Here’s the
day named for you. Scary to have had so many
yet catapult awake to light’s eyelid tattoo. Wary,
you roll into the sun’s arms. Exult in a trick of
birth. Demur to angels of air and temperature.
Hear the warbled annunciations: a
woodpecker’s churr thrilling on the tree’s core.
You clear a way fortune’s fallen arrows. Clues
lurk in the wind-shift, array of a passing hour’s
gifts. Loft with the blue fire of a jay’s cape
slung onto grass. Despite the spider-bite of
missing a friend, nothing can mar a day so
earthened.
