While the Judges Deliberate on The Juried Piece: Son

While the Judges Deliberate on The Juried Piece: Son

So strange it was

to slip away

in the stream

from the hard won

maturity,

to feel abandoned

the line spooling,

the bridge gone,

even the ground aswim,

a river going nowhere,

my hook snagging on thin air

and nothing hidden

in the flowing world

to catch, or bite, or tug again.

                                                David Whyte

                                                “Fishing”

While I slept and while I was awake

you were made and made and made I carried you

while you were being

made and day after day

close and away we came to be grateful

that this time maybe you would want to stay.

But there was a place in you I didn’t make

in any way but haste (even if I never knew

                                                                or never could)

I took you the day

after you were born and warm and up

under my chin you made a place

for yourself there a brand

and as fast as that they took you

away they made another cradle for you

and it was not big enough

for me and we

where once we were one skin lifting

from the tissue we were now two

and on opposite sides of the veil.

You know how when you stand at low tide

                                                                in the wet sand

and just watch the bow or the stern

or the starboard or port side

of the boat and the fog alone and maybe the water

prevents you from knowing

prevents what it is you seem to see from being

seen and if you want to see what is

coming what it is you think you see is coming

or going and you wait and wait

you wait while the water empties out

before it completely turns around and begins

and offers choices:           either wait but for what and risk drowning

                                                or turn a shoulder and walk a half a league

                                                                to go back up the beach

                                                                to see from higher ground

                                                or to be like a Jesus and a Peter

                                                needing sleep

                                                needing cups dropped

                                                needing feet beside your own

but pulling olive after olive after olive

from the tree and pressing each to your jaw

and the meat is torn from the stone

and the loath to drip oil seeps between each and squeezes between each

                space in your teeth

                the glistening skin

                and the come undone sliver: it’s some of the pit

                sharp against the gum and a flick

                of the tongue it’s gone it’s all glide

                down the windpipe down to the inside

                of the dark

                a tiny boat so like the sculpture

                of Ch’en Tsu-Chang: the men at leisure

                                                the ode on the Red Cliff

                                                a transcription on the hull

it’s like this through time:

a garden

a sea

a teeny olive pit being

sent down

into the black blood of my body

to what?

to get lost?

to come out again?

to choose

to remain? to be

half made almost made inadequately made

(I’m ashamed) and then taken away?