she’s a natural here
winter woods
snow, snow melt
grainy slabs of basalt
yet tense, fearful
grief has her
here where once she strode
now she’s dimmed
so fruitless to say
time heals — nothing heals, though time
blurs, softens, mutes
& nothing stops
pain, ready
every second
to flare, to flame
yet sunshine on snow
boosts albedo
cools the earth
two blue bars painted on a tree trunk
tell me the trail turns here, left or right
not specified, so I go left into unbarred wild
farther & farther — I know I’m wrong
though what is wrong about here vs there?
woods is woods, the mountain
never asked to be surveyed, to be signed
to be designated human-friendly space
by the time I make it back to the two bars
I know at least which way the trail
does not go, I know the freedom of turning
any which way, plus I know what’s growing
inside the root ball of the upturned pine
I’ve scaled the slope down to the water
visited mossy rocks & rills seldom seen
though as lovely as any along the trail
I turn right this time, cross the stream
climb a much steeper hill on a wider trail
truer to call it an old logging road
though no wheeled-beast could step
cautiously across the stream as I did
one foot on one stone, one on another
wishing not to fall & also wishing
yes — heedless, helpless, stunned —
to slip, to fall, to be swept away
if lichens & moss cling with rhizines
with holdfasts to tree bark, to boulders
to glacial erratics . . . if a bowerbird
ferries horsehair, mowed hay, hedge
trimmings, fern fronds, blueberries
weaves all to a cavernous nest . . . if
an animal has pockets, has a pocket
carries in her pocket a wooden bead
a rusted ball bearing, a cashew nut
any kind of amulet, of charm . . . how
can we fathom what anything else feels?
the guest bedroom holds many more things than a bed —
shelving packed with clothes, boxed items, loose items
large & small, dust & cat hair everywhere including
the bedcover — when I pull it back to look at the sheets
I find a cockroach dead on the pillow, the rest of house
mirrors the bedroom, overstocked & undercleaned
I pick at my supper, excuse myself before the others
return to the bedroom where I squirrel cockroach
plus pillow behind a closet door, fully clothed in the bed
I read, worry, barely sleep, & in the morning I stubbornly
tearfully insist that I must leave, everyone’s confused
they protest, later I learn they were irate, I organize
a ride to the airport where I rent a car, drive two days
home, lick my wound — the breach takes forever to heal
— in re Percy Bysshe Shelley
midst the ebb and flow of human things
the brood of ignorance
crawls on the loathing earth
subjected and plastic, poisonous
and undying worms moulder there
the worm has made his meal
of premature and violent death
living pullies of a dead machine
tendrils of the parasite leave nothing
yet animal life was there
things that walk, swim, creep, or fly
grey light, so cold, so bright, so still
when will the morning come?
broad and yellow moon
but the mushroom of a summer day
surgical removal of the corpus callosum —
the “wide thick nerve tract connecting the left & right
cerebral hemispheres” — alleviated epilepsy
& also exposed the apparent existence of a second
though speechless self
every time you dither
consider your second self
might epilepsy be the frenzy of too much choice?
in one case the speaking self refused to name
his girl friend, whereas the non-speaking self
wrote down her name
if a second self exists
we must be a committee
neither self is first nor second, they must be peers
go to town or stay at home
eat lunch or drink beer
read a book or sing a song
the one that speaks merely voices the decision
is morality
the voice of our better self? our noisier self?
think about postmortems
pleasure or pain
gain or loss
why would one self be “better” than the other?
surely either self can take either side
what if we were to acknowledge our second self?
if both selves could speak, & simultaneously
would we be able to make decisions?
imagine if we had three cerebral hemispheres
completes the back of the house
what a fine idea of yours to leave it
until last, so easy to climb
in & out, birds & wild animals
along with girls & boys, gash of fresh
air, natural light, the random factors
keep the job from becoming stale
different takes on the unexpected
occur & recur, a hailstorm’s
droppings, the bleaching out, shadow
mixing, nettles & claws
also the circle of chairs the PTA
placed along the driveway
that anyone might sit & watch
all year for discarded trimmings
three bent nails, a sawdust mound
hence analysis won’t be required
everyone already knows
a red clay doorstep is what you want
— with a nod to Charles Olson
yes And my ass
itches
(“What are all these thorns
on the rose?
“Good grief, cherie, don’t you know yr ass
from my elbow?”)
Try again
to hold the nut
still
(yr fist
wrapped around the
handle (greasy, yup
Who does not rip away petals
will never bear fruit
no matter the freezing rain
glazing yr weeds
a gleaned nest — paper, dust, hair —
inside the wall of an old house
she wakes, fully wakes in her bed
to a low growl muffled by a body
clenched in the cat’s teeth
Mus musculus, or some other
lives longer in a house
than outside, tries to winter in
were she to turn on a light
the mouse is peanut size
sprout of tail, pale skeletal feet
drop the mouse
chase the mouse
growl
clenched, released, what the mouse
knows, is run run run
one cat, then the other cat
traps the mouse beneath a paw
trots off growling
no use in her getting up, no use anything
but lie there, over an hour, listening
three weeks to gestate
two more left to wean
morning light, she’ll find
the dead, the partial, or the missing
a streak of blood on a stair
the cats don’t settle, they prowl
inch by inch, eyes
whiskers
inside the wall
too quietly for her to hear
cries & rustlings followed by silence
