Saturday, May 19, 2018

may morning: the nineteenth: five: fifteen



may morning:
the nineteenth:
five: fifteen

the color’s done coming
and the sun’s not up.
and whatever

pellet fed farm-raised salmon
pink slid by the roof
of our new neighbor’s

house is faded—either
drunk or puffed or drawn
apart or away.  today

it will rain.  a may rain
and gratefully it will make
the bleak maple more

leafy, it will blot out
maybe all of the male
cardinal I saw yesterday

in another tree, a mature
lilac, and he didn’t wait
for me to see anything

else.  doesn’t the word
beauty come closer than any
other word to a cloud

that is always away from
now even before anyone
can say what they see,

before today, when I’d begun
here to put it all down

in the first line, how it’s all ready

finished and done?

Friday, May 18, 2018

After It's Finished: First Marriage




After It’s Finished:  First Marriage

Indescribably noble and imposing…it is full
of poetry and suggestion.  Infinite wisdom;
a past without beginning and a future
without end; a repose, after limitless
experience in this austere and beautiful
face and form.
                                                John Clay
                                                Describing the Adams Memorial
                                                                to Henry Adams

At Rock Creek Cemetery Eleanor
Roosevelt strode close and closer still
to the stone and metal bonded grace
of Clover Adams—both alone.  She'd been
told about Lucy Mercer.  Did she know
about Lizzie Cameron?  Common? Some-
one they love doesn’t love them
as much? And their carapace is struck
is broke off from their throat, their
voice’s home.  It’s impossible not to be

pulled by the chemical serenity Clover drank
when she was 42, pouring down
to the ground, pulling up, finally, the earth’s
solid balm.  The five Sibyls, and the one
Kwannon were St. Gauden’s force of
uncoming, of arriving the women from
what’s suffered.  But from what mile

mark?  What mile?  I’ve seen her only,
Clover, in Cornish, cloistral in the cedar
hedges if that’s what they are because I can’t
remember paying them a name, only
the space they caved toward, forward
to her hooded, almost genderless chin
and cheek.  Did Eleanor come to this same
place too—not Cornish necessarily but 

maybe she walked past Abraham 
Lincoln and some of his
generals, past the Puritan too if any
of these were reduced and installed.  I’m
not sure it’s her steps I want to follow or some
how Clover’s, the coming undone
as plain as taking away a marriage

maimed overcloak, a dress, a still thinner 
robe, a step up to the glass as naked as I can make 
myself stand
and see into the rock water not myself rising
up reflecting but maybe  a glass negative
of a photo exposed to the perfect within a rational
fraction, time of  dark/light when, just

before it’s too much and burns to scar, it is
clarity on the lips, it is honest, it is being
betrayed and still, after all is lost and blown,
walking out alive, broke open by it shuddering
aftershock but full somehow and, (though 
it may be some time coming up out 
of the chemical cleanse) whole.