Wednesday, April 23, 2008

New Poem

Here’s Where the Story Ends

Ten Months

As though it were simple to live happily and alone,
an infection overwhelming every good thing.
The dog stands inside the fence barking
her sweet loneliness at a passing mail truck.
She whines at the door. From my desk, in pajamas,
I watch children walking home from the bus,
past the neighbor’s busy two-stroke Lawn-Boy
harvesting blossoms in the last winter grass.
A low cloud of mulch, fumes, and sun.
A pasture clouded with stubborn kite-tails.
Beneath trees full of affection for anything
unbound, this heat: it leaves the body like a fever.
It exhausts all ambition to stay in one place.
Love is an ambition to live like a saint
even if there is no sainthood inside of you.
Not you, but here. Not here, but here, in this photo,
where my heavy arm casually holds us close,
your cheeks flush as we wait for the recognition,
patiently posing, a consequence of wanting, to have come this far.


4 comments:

Kelly said...

Wow, I like how this came out, particularly these new lines:
"harvesting blossoms in the last winter grass.
A low cloud of mulch, fumes, and sun."

Stephanie said...

Great job - love the happy dog :)

KATE EVANS said...

Wow, you sure can write a poem. This poem conveys such complexities--or, should I say, takes me into them. I experience them.

Yes, "Love is an ambition to live like a saint / even if there is no sainthood inside you."

It's amazing what you do with the next lines, taking the "you" (and therefore also me) into the poem "Not here, but here . . ."

The "casual" arm says so so much about life, loss, mortality . . .

Anonymous said...

This poem is lovely...