Avalanche of Poetry

Shelving

I won't buy Suetonius' Twelve Caesars
until I find the Modern Library Edition
with the smooth coppery binding
that fits in next to all my other books.

I want to line it up next to Tacitus,
Socrates, Kant and Mill,
and pretend that they match,
that it all makes sense.

* * *

Reflection / Analysis

All books are windows.
some are so clean that you bump
into the glass trying to reach
the author on the other side.

Others are stained glass,
the figure behind the panel
sliced up with colored shapes
and images of saints.

But the best ones are tinted,
and the only hint of an author
is the occasional sudden movement
behind your reflection.

* * *

Whatever the future brings,

He will always be the one who sang to me,

Who liked to bite my shoulder,

Who hangs in the antique store of my memory

Glowing softly like a chandelier made with

Thinly carved slices of white jade

And the rice paper seeds of that unique plant,

honesty.

* * *

Open Casket

"He looks so young and handsome," the mourners all agreed,
in his waxy smile, sewn shut at the corners.
My grandmother had arranged us into little bouquets of family around the coffin,
Putting on appearances while the town put in theirs.
She held court by the body, receiving testimonials
Of how nice he was, for lack of knowing anything more specific about him.
Every measured tear, every foxglove, was displayed thoughtfully and correctly,
And I wondered who he was, this figurine; I remember him as someone
Who just happened to hang around my Grandmother,
So I have nothing to mourn.
People don't mourn their people, after all; they mourn their stories,
The face they put on what happened,
Silk flowers on brass biers.

* * *

Voyee

Every chance I get,
I watch the moon with you.
I want him to see,
When he checks up on us,
That we are every bit as
Whatever we are
As we were in New York
When he watched us from over Queens.

* * *

Sharing

I gave him my stump
to hold in the crook of his arm
like a loaf of bread with slashes in the top,
to walk on for a day
and rub like the sore muscles were his,
to cradle like a crying baby
and whisper soothingly,
Shhh.
Mine.