Reader, now you are fully here in the poem.
This is how the poem, you, and I
transcend illusion, maya.
Tell us how outside your window rain beats a can –
the one you left on the porch of hair mixed with coffee grounds
swept from the kitchen floor last spring.
And I will admit my mother was already lost
as we drove from warehouse to warehouse in Denver
looking for heroes and boxes of steel ball bearings.
The poem tells us these are where we hide,
our thoughts tangled in umbilical, helical ropes
that hang our hats or our heads.
I am a large man, if I try to wear your clothes
they will burst. If you try to see yourself in my mirror
you will be unshaven and want a clean bar of soap.
There is no "chop wood, carry water" here, only
an apartment in Weekhawken above parking lots
filled with brown leaves, thin puddles.
Let us break bread together then,
raise our glasses without deception – utterance
and burning promise in our throats.
The Sunday Muse