19 Jan: "The Truth" by Ross Gay
The Truth
Related Poem Content Details
Because he was 38, because this
was his second job, because
he had two daughters, because his hands
looked like my father's, because at 7
he would walk to the furniture warehouse,
unload trucks 'til 3 AM, because I
was fourteen and training him, because he made
$3.75 an hour, because he had a wife
to look in the face, because
he acted like he respected me,
because he was sick and would not call out
I didn't blink when the water
dropped from his nose
into the onion's perfectly circular
mouth on the Whopper Jr.
I coached him through preparing.
I did not blink.
Tell me this didn't happen.
I dare you.
17 Jan: "Dear Future Self," by Jimmy Nameles
"Dear Future Self,"
Sorry I couldn't do better.
I mean, don't get me wrong,
I could have done better,
but I'm not.
You'll understand, I'm sure,
But, unfortunately, you won't
Have the same options as I.
You'll have to do it.
Besides, one of us has to do it,
And why not you? We work
Better under pressure, and
You'll have plenty of pressure.
Don't worry though. I'll make sure
You're well rested and fed. I'll have
Everything on the desk waiting
When you wake up.
One last thing, don't be too upset
If we don't finish that book, the dishes,
Or any chores really.
Yours truly,
Us
Sorry I couldn't do better.
I mean, don't get me wrong,
I could have done better,
but I'm not.
You'll understand, I'm sure,
But, unfortunately, you won't
Have the same options as I.
You'll have to do it.
Besides, one of us has to do it,
And why not you? We work
Better under pressure, and
You'll have plenty of pressure.
Don't worry though. I'll make sure
You're well rested and fed. I'll have
Everything on the desk waiting
When you wake up.
One last thing, don't be too upset
If we don't finish that book, the dishes,
Or any chores really.
Yours truly,
Us
16 Jan: "On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous" by Ocean Vuong
i
Tell me it was for the hunger
& nothing less. For hunger is to give
the body what it knows
it cannot keep. That this amber light
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to your chest.
i
You, drowning
between my arms —
stay.
You, pushing your body
into the river
only to be left
with yourself —
stay.
i
I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after
backhanding
mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel
in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls.
And so I learned that a man, in climax, was the closest thing
to surrender.
i
Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade.
Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn.
Say autumn despite the green
in your eyes. Beauty despite
daylight. Say you’d kill for it. Unbreakable dawn
mounting in your throat.
My thrashing beneath you
like a sparrow stunned
with falling.
i
Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
i
I wanted to disappear — so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky — to hold every flying & falling at once.
i
Say amen. Say amend.
Say yes. Say yes
anyway.
i
In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed.
i
In the life before this one, you could tell
two people were in love
because when they drove the pickup
over the bridge, their wings
would grow back just in time.
Some days I am still inside the pickup.
Some days I keep waiting.
i
It’s not too late. Our heads haloed
with gnats & summer too early
to leave any marks.
Your hand under my shirt as static
intensifies on the radio.
Your other hand pointing
your daddy’s revolver
to the sky. Stars falling one
by one in the cross hairs.
This means I won’t be
afraid if we’re already
here. Already more
than skin can hold. That a body
beside a body
must make a field
full of ticking. That your name
is only the sound of clocks
being set back another hour
& morning
finds our clothes
on your mother’s front porch, shed
like week-old lilies.
15 Jan: "DeToNation" by Ocean Vuong
There’s a joke that ends with — huh?
It’s the bomb saying here is your father.
Now here is your father inside
your lungs. Look how lighter
the earth is — afterward.
To even write the word father
is to carve a portion of the day
out of a bomb-bright page.
There’s enough light to drown in
but never enough to enter the bones
& stay. Don’t stay here, he said, my boy
broken by the names of flowers. Don’t cry
anymore. So I ran into the night.
The night: my shadow growing
toward my father.
14 Jan: "Toy Boat" by Ocean Vuong
yellow plastic
black sea
eye-shaped shard
on a darkened map
no shores now
to arrive — or
depart
no wind but
this waiting which
moves you
as if the seconds
could be entered
& never left
toy boat — oarless
each wave
a green lamp
outlasted
toy boat
toy leaf dropped
from a toy tree
waiting
waiting
as if the sp-
arrows
thinning above you
are not
already pierced
by their own names
13 Jan: "1975: Year of the Cat" by Thanha Lai
This is the first poem in the novel Inside Out & Back Again.
Today is Tết,
the first day
of the lunar calendar.
Every Tết
we eat sugary lotus seeds
and glutinous rice cakes.
We wear all new clothes,
even underneath.
Mother warns
how we act today
foretells the whole year.
Everyone must smile
no matter how we feel.
No one can sweep,
for why sweep away hope?
No one can splash water,
for why splash away joy?
Today
we all gain one year in age,
no matter the date we were born.
Tết, our New Year’s,
doubles as everyone’s birthday.
Now I am ten, learning
to embroider circular stitiches,
to calculate fractions into percentages,
to nurse my papaya tree to bear many fruits.
But last night I pouted
when Mother insisted
one of my brothers
must rise first
this morning
to bless our house
because only male feet
can bring luck.
An old, angry knot
expanded in my throat.
I decided
to wake before dawn
and tap my big toe
to the tile floor
first.
Not even Mother,
sleeping beside me, knew.
February 11
Tết
the first day
of the lunar calendar.
Every Tết
we eat sugary lotus seeds
and glutinous rice cakes.
We wear all new clothes,
even underneath.
Mother warns
how we act today
foretells the whole year.
Everyone must smile
no matter how we feel.
No one can sweep,
for why sweep away hope?
No one can splash water,
for why splash away joy?
Today
we all gain one year in age,
no matter the date we were born.
Tết, our New Year’s,
doubles as everyone’s birthday.
Now I am ten, learning
to embroider circular stitiches,
to calculate fractions into percentages,
to nurse my papaya tree to bear many fruits.
But last night I pouted
when Mother insisted
one of my brothers
must rise first
this morning
to bless our house
because only male feet
can bring luck.
An old, angry knot
expanded in my throat.
I decided
to wake before dawn
and tap my big toe
to the tile floor
first.
Not even Mother,
sleeping beside me, knew.
February 11
Tết
11 Jan: "Longing" by Jimmy Nameles
In response to “Loyal” by William Matthews.
“Longing”
Confusing love and longing, it is so true.
Do you love someone? Do they you?
Or do we love how they make us feel?
The people I love make me feel alive.
The people that love me make me feel alive.
I'm more lovable when I feel alive.
I'm high on love, highest on Renaissance death.
Everything we do together is the best.
We want it to last forever, but it can't.
Things change, life goes on.
Inconsolably, we do and don't cry long.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)