Monday, June 12, 2017

Whiskey

I need some comfort tonight.  I pour whiskey
over ice, just submerging the frozen blocks.
I take a sip and the novelty burns
slowly down by throat.  I turn the page.
I read, reread my favorite poetry:
Digging, Death of a Naturalist, Follower;
I take a drink.
It burns less as I read Personal Helicon and Antaeus.
A 1966 comfort
against the heavy Irish rain and smell of potato mold.

I turn to Whitman with my next sip:
larger this time with shards of ice sliding down my throat.

"of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love."
Last night I cried with no one to kiss away my tears.

I take another sip and flip through
Leaves of Grass until I come to an old,
folded paper; names of former students:
Tatum with Dylan
Alyssa with Eli
Why did I put Joey with Amy?
Why is this memory lost, stuck between
Song of Myself versus 6 and 7?

"What is the grass?"
I take a final sip, smell warm dead grass
handfuls pressed underneath my nose.  I inhale
deeply and close my eyes.  This is my song;
my comfort.  This is myself I sing, interrupting
myself to ponder in silence.

Monday, June 05, 2017

Petrichor

She smells of the sun
and sounds like summer sun
showers smashing into dry, dusty asphalt.

She bursts into rooms like fizzes of
aromatic aerosols, telling me, asking me,
showing me; creating memories she can draw from
when reading a beach novel, warm sand
heating her towel and she can't quite put her finger
on it: palpabilis.
Or when she touches an unknown word.