All These Rooms

Valse

Hush, I planted an acacia nut
in the milk white flesh
of your palm so that we might forget
all the things we’ve loved and lost
never to come again.

No, I planted two seeds -
one for you and one for me -
hold your palms out
so we might see
their movement towards light
breaking twice the space between
earth and sky - how effortlessly
sovereign and unkempt.

I cannot mock and mimic
comprehension wholly.
I cannot draw so near.

But go on.

As if there was a choice.

A small talisman: A long grey bird
in the elder part of January sculls the estuary and
each pussy willow turns serpentine inside the fold
of image upon image, water then the world.

And the question:
At the caesura, what happens there?

To foliate: the having of leaves.

The dog comes back from in the trees and he
takes a stick, beats her where she lays, “She needs
to learn that is what happens when she leads
off and hunts alone.” I walk away,
get in my car ashamed I didn’t say
a thing. I swerve to miss a gopher. Whomp.
I hope it’s dead. I stop, get out and stomp
the writhing body’s head. It’s not my day.

I skip a rock across the dirt. I slip
back to his house and hide until I see
the dog go off and call her in: “pip pip.”
At home the dog shits behind my TV.
I wipe her face in it then throw her in
the yard. Later I check on her–she’s gone.

Well so I’ve just posted a bunch of revisions based on your guys’ comments so check em out if your sick enough of my poems after all the ones I just added.

and check out the sonnet post for a picture of the whomper stick people get for winning the bi-weekly challenge.

This is just a brief introduction to writing in wordpress on the site. I want to be sure everyone feels comfortable with the way wordpress and alltheserooms works so I’m making this post to help people understand everything they can do on the site. So if you’re new to wordpress and allttheserooms read on.

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MISSOULA

In the dark of the shower she combs out the knots in her hair and sticks the loose strands to the wet tile.
The apartment is filled up with the sound of the water.
The window in the bathroom is open and her body steams as the wind comes in off the snow.
The tips of her hair freeze. Her scalp tightens.
The kitchen smells of cold air through hot water
and the fried plantains in the salad you’re making.
This place has come to taste of you. You go to the shower, slip your hand under the skin on her hip, trace your finger up her stomach to her armpit, pull it free like you would undress a deer tied to a rafter by a chain in the garage.
You stand there and look out at Missoula, naked, watching
over the orange sky, the odd buildings tacked to the valley.
Talk of wiping them off and staking teepees
into the shadows along the hills.

BACK FROM THE WAR

Hit a curve.
Flip off the bike.
Cut through the air with the animal grace I get when I’m thrown.
Over the bank my fingers are feathers,
touching the willow tips.
Hit the slope ready to be earth again.

GET UP GET UP

Hear the water. Get up.

Get up.

Trip myself and roll and

Get up.

Something
was wet
is dry.
Hear the water moving. Water.

Smells dry. Fall again. Get up.
Wet on my face. Wet on my neck.
Move to the noise.
Rain.
Can smell the rain
hitting the river.

FRUIT OF THE FIELD

Slip on wet leaves into the river.
In the sky a fine mist.
Climb the bank. Walk through a sandbox.
Melted GI Joes. Step over the gate.
Red paint flecks off the window.
The living room carpet butts
into the prairie. A river. Buffalo. A steady
loud drum, a high lone song. Me streak their faces
black and red. They strike camp. One holds a pole
before him as they ride. A circle of teepees. A crowd
gathers. Whooping. Children
meet the riders and race them back.

Sunset. Nextdoor. A chunk of stone missing
from the ear of the marble lion out front. His mane
flows into the emptiness, emerges again. Inside
is a streetlight in the branches of a tall maple. Leaves
drifting down.

In the alley. Frat boys knock down a man.
They stomp on his head. Blood. They scatter.
The body peels itself up. He is torn. I can see his imprint
on the cement. He closes a knife,
gives space to the corners, staggers off.

I trip. The leaves stick to my face. Smells
like urine. The raine eases. Wind comes up,
sails me into the air over the street.

ALMOST MORNING

Am wet. My old girlfriend’s apartment.
Looks the same. The street glints,
stained in rain. Tears. Look for stars.
None on the horizon.
Inside. She thrashes at her comforter.
Gets up, heads for the bathroom. Goes back to bed.

Dig the hide-a-key from the mail box. Go in.
Lift the blanket with with a finger. Lay down
slow. She groans
and rolls over. After a minute
I almost hold her. Move close
to sleep. No stars on
the horizon. The buildings block the stars.
Almost morning. Buildings…
the stars. Should be more
noise. I move. She shifts away.
The stars. To hold her. The horizon. Buildings
not mountains. Morning.
There should be more noise.