NAOMI WASHER |
we grew into ritual
in the barn, boughs bend and reconfigure [why are we here?] dust trips up and finds us whole [have we been here before?] a hand trails nails and wooden slats [would we know if we have been here or not?] a face disappears through broken boards [if we come back?] watch one leg remain, still here, still here, still… [will it be the same?] watch arms wrap around the roof [will we find it, the thing that we are looking for?] climb atop the wood pile, see gray october sky, fill pockets up with fingers holding fast [is this a story or impressions on a string?] remember arms, remember pale thin arm reaching ever [who will tell of all this when we are gone?] we have not been the first, we have wanted corners driven from the mind [how will they say what we have seen?] listen and repeat till the branches crash down heaping and the field is a blanket sewn and torn [how will they see it?] we have known what we will be, at the end of things a dream, buried in the road [and who will listen?] and who will climb back through the log piles of years, the dusty heaps of years, wrapping hand round wrist, thumb round stone [we will be inside the nest, original, humming] [we will be there whispering] [we will be inside] |
Make me a coffee table on your stoop. Make me a bookshelf, four walls and a door. Make me dark-wooded windows. Make me a rug. Make me an armchair rounded with age. Make me tile in the kitchen. Make me a radiator’s stuttered hissing. Make me a map on the wall, a light bulb flickering. Make me desk drawers overflowing. Make me a headboard and a doorway. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house. My porch is not a porch but a landing. A place to begin.
|