Young Poets

On Faith

A sudden want of it this morning,
preceding coffee, shoulders
to stretch my right arm over.
It disturbs me.
Artificial coloring disturbs me. Rattle of heating pipes
straining to keep me content disturbs me. Baby talk
disturbs me. Pharmaceutical advertising ending with lists
of fatal side effects disturbs me. What constitutes
purity or filth or proper or not disturbs me. Who
gets to draw those lines disturbs me. Web cookie
disturbs me. The compulsion to always end
on an image disturbs me. Sugar disturbs me.
The never-ending suggestion
of irrevocability disturbs me. So, too,
this want of faith.
Detached from spires, mammoth bodies of religion,
the church bells down the block that inform me
it is time to cook some dinner. A want of words.
A want of worlds.
A want of impossibility. A want of moths
molded from light, landing on me,
choosing to land on me.

My Teacher Once Asked About My Fear

And I said: Forgetting things.

A friend offered his couch
in Myrtle Beach. There is cable TV

for basketball games, though it’s still March
and the jacuzzi hasn’t opened. He’s the waiter

at a run-down diner owned by his Armenian cousin,
who pours me plenty of bourbon. We go home

swaying, eat Walmart cheesecakes by hand,
and if we are still empty, make stir-fry

out of salami shreds and broccoli.
Forgetting things, the trick is doing it before

anything really happens. Are you still there
my curious teacher? I have a new fear

and he’s called forever.

No Time Stands Alone II

I once tiptoed into Mother’s bedroom her violet curtains drawn
her lonesome contour in sheets asking her my lovely mother
can you please call me princess? Four year old boy
no skirts no luscious hair no Disney crown and still she let me
be princess that morning blanket around my shoulders
like exotic fur. There was no need for understanding
no need to explain why a boy needs to feel pretty
no purging for poison in the media in that bedroom
she hugged me loved me this boy who should really be a gun.
In that meadow couples made out in shadows I once tried befriending
a doe red apple in my palm that sugary heart oh how I yearned to learn
an elegance unfeigned. Holding out to her the fruit my sincerity
all unbearable and within across geraniums waiting for her
to love me back. All I got was a shred of eye contact
and she’s gone leaping into the depths of beauty seeing
in my pupils the barrel of a hunter’s rifle thirsting
to own her to consume her motion. A man all grown
not a boy I once longed to be just to now wishing to be an orchid
when everyone expects a weapon a wasp a father
like a whiplash. A consequence comes with wanting
in this world. I spend each day studying the art
of being an aftermath.

Memoria

Pappy bundles me into

Coat scarf hat gloves winter boots

Mummy doesn’t like me wearing those

Pappy’s good lady friend got me them

All white and brown, I’m a plump Christmas pudding

Ready for eating

A steaming dumpling

An egg on legs!

Come on come on Pappy says

Waddling my way to the car

We’re going to see Nanny Cole

My pappy’s mum’s mother

She’s ancient

She’s a million years old

She’s a mummy without the wrapped around loo roll

And when she kisses you it stains your cheek

Zombie spit

Poison

We’re rolling along

A red wheewhaw whirring past

Pappy puts a middle finger up to another man driving his car

He shouts at me when I copy him

We arrive and Nanny Cole comes out

She’s alive she’s alive!

They both tell me to shush

I’m on the wooden chair

My bum is aaaaaaaching oweee

I’m kicking my heels against the legs, spiders are crawling up!

 Pappy garumphs and guffaws

Telling me to be quiet

And I am

Quiet as a mouse

Nibble nibble nibble

Nanny Cole doesn’t like mice

She’s got traps everywhere

She doesn’t want them in the house

All because she doesn’t want to feed them

Nanny Jackie said that we are Jewish

I don’t really know what that means

Funny hats big hats

Singing a lot in strange voices

Are we Jewish Nanny Cole? Are we?

And she says

What did she say what did that girl say I’m not Jewish

I’m not

I’m not

Pappy coos at her

She’s just a kid she doesn’t know what she’s talking about

He flaps at me with his other hand

Shoo shoo at me a pigeon

Off I dawdle

Into the garden

Everything’s dead now in winter.

Memoria pt. II

After Joe Brainard

I remember seizures alone in my bed at night, nobody watching to see if I could breathe

I remember children calling me names in the playground and speaking to me in pointed voices

I remember blessings in the church of our holy lord, our father, our giver and taker of life, those pews were so uncomfortable

I remember my grandmother pushing my grandfather down one night when he came home drunk again, she smashed a mug into his forehead

I remember the dog nipping at my fingers through a neighbour’s post box

I remember sunshine off the coast of France

I remember my stomach hurling as I rode in airplanes, cars, boats, trains

I remember the first red stains as I approached womanhood

I remember when my father told me about what happened in my mother’s family

I remember my paternal great-grandmother denying that she was Jewish.

I remember my maternal great-grandmother hiding her wrists under long sleeves

I remember the aunt who always strayed closed but never quite belonged. She was born in unfortunate circumstances, an unwanted child.

I remember learning my tribal name for the first time

I remember finding out what happened to Pocahontas’ son.

I remember my 23&me DNA tests containing bombshell revelations.

I remember overlooking a rainforest deep in the recesses of the Australian countryside

I remember my father cradling my head.