The trail gone cold, your voice
asleep in your throat,
She had to have shopped for the hose,
measured it, fit it with duct tape to
the pipe and run it through the back
covetous old knots on a string
still tied to my grandfather’s big toe in Shandong
It was getting late, and
you could feel the strain
of all the things that
hadn’t happened yet not happening
And then I see it: to be a hero is to be a child of a mother —
I admit it, my life, I was totally taken with you.
I went along, laughing and smiling, or sometimes on the verge of tears
mewing a downy
echo: every dead thing is in need of more
someone you know
is on the brink
of suicide, of murder,
is it also not
a national question?
I lunch alone on chunks of venison. The Black Death
feels distant, like you.
I covered his eyes with my lips, but he pushed me away (“there’s
no returning from there”)
He sings and speaks
with the voice of a priest, father, or devil.
I was up in God’s country, up on a mountain early
and, of course, I fell in love
Speech is the tree line of your easy chair—
The tipsy slurring of worlds
AWOL from fixed positions.
From the Review in 1949.
This is not death. It is the terrible
Suspension of life.
Carlos Andrés Gómez
Sometimes I search for the exact dayI stopped dreaming in the language
that sings my name.
But slowly we disciplined the mouth
Tamed it into movement
Surely for this reason death must announce itself
again and again in such sour language
We are the ghosts of who comes after us
The stones is dead the stones that were too big
For human beings to move the angel saw
The humans in their freedom killed them both
And pounded with their bloody fists on the splintering gates
Last month, my father fell again and I walked through him for the third time.
In the Archaeological Museum there’s at least one artifactfor which the use is no longer known.
The thing you never dared to fearwill never make its way in here.
What I want is thatlost shoebox full of faded snapshots back.
When I knew you, I had time for mine.
The sun itself a larger bird, its wings manufacturing the solar wind
Tragically, he believes he can mend his wounds with his poetry.
Turbulent paradise, thirsting.
People are different, too