Anthesis

I.

What they won’t tell you is hearts break

as flowers bloom; beginning coarse

and bulbous beneath the dirt, we bury

them in the soil of our breast until

someone feeds enough to sprout

the seed, an induction that fosters

faith, a reason to rise into light.

II.

They won’t tell you a heart’s beauty,

as a flower’s, is not for lovers but for pests,

for passers-by who carry what we yield

from one place to another. We are fixed,

or fix ourselves to fit the delight of these.

We are warned of the withering to come

from those who endured it. We know

the stigma, we still give with hope to receive.

III.

We give and mature. Our cheeks flush

with color, a flaunt of vibrancy. How long

will this last we wonder. How long can

something remain open, dependent on something

else before it dies? Nothing can save a thing

from chance—that reckless boy skipping through

a garden in defiance, snapping the necks of stems,

deflowering a lea or garden, not knowing the need

for beauty, the kind we can’t see, but breathe.

IV.

They won’t tell you the pain a flower feels

as it exposes petals, how difficult that can be.

They won’t tell you that to open oneself

is to peel away guards, to give way to unknown

elements, the luring buzzes of all that can take

and break. This phase, they’ll tell you, is

when weakness and power meet, full bloom,

a moment to inhale. They’ll warn of the cold.

But they won’t tell you about what’s next:

how we’re scattered when broken, how

something grows from this. Somewhere else.

And that’s something.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day 7

When the Killer Couldn’t Fill a Barroom

The souvenirs came easy.

What some called flawed

we called charmed, as in a spell,

endearing as a heel-sized hole

in the oak bench we stole

from the club in Paintsville,

right after The Killer beat the tune

back into an old Starr. I remember

his right foot twisting like he was

putting out a smoke in spite,

his left leg stomping and kicking

in harmony with those Louisiana

hands. He didn’t know we were

there, even as we touched him,

even as his notes rose to the rafters

like demons from hell to earth

and shook the dust back down

into the music. We let it hit our tongues

and burn like dabs of bourbon,

like the sweat in our eyes.

Six minutes into the haze

of Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On

he whipped his head back, the cocking

of a pistol, then struck the stage with his left

foot like a hammer and fired back

into the song, his right heel driving

the bench back into the wall. When

the show ended and the bar cleared,

we snuck the broken stool onto our truck

bed, warning each other not to break it—

not to destruct the already shattered

wood. It had the dead weight of a drunk

man, the same aura of invincibility.

It would’ve been a sin to sit on it,

we decided, to use it for anything

other than a reminder of Mr. Lewis

and his magic. And so we gathered on

the floor that night and whispered

into the mysterious hole like a confessional,

asked, as if The Killer would answer,

how something can be so sturdy while hollow, 
so equally broken and whole. 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day 6

The Business of Trains

*

Steam engine steel,

   the proud face of vintage America,

      you are best with your pompous roar,

         your unabated pursuits through forests

            unseen by all but the boys throwing pebbles

               into your maw.

                                                                                                *

Beneath the chest lies the coal

         on which we run. All that matters,

                  or so grandfathers told us. Skin is tough

        but only so much. It takes mettle,

          the concealed to move. They said

           this, wrench-in-wrist, having lived it.

                                   

                                    *

                The boxcar winks, a half-open eye.

                    Light can fill one corner of a space

                       sure as caulk. In the dark, men breathe and

                         watch the light swirl, trapped, as they are, in this

                            home that roams. Shadows flicker, disrupt the light

                               as proof: when we die, the world still moves.  

            *

Two men, a vacant platform.

   A whistle will forever resonate

      as loss, the howl of a wolf mourning

         the death of its cub. The younger man leans

            in, trying to catch what remains of a touch, her

               last words. They dissolve like smoke.

*

Wood beams, rails and spikes stitch this land

             together, sprawl like veins, like rivers. We travel

         from above now, an aerial perch to witness

                    the past—these rails like scars, a trail of kisses

                                across the breast of the country. What else can bear

                             the labor, the luggage of humanity? Only these.

Ode to NIU, on Valentine's Day

            Fourteen of us sit, circled around our professor on a small hill in the quad—the epicenter of Northern Illinois University. We are here to free-write, and none of us know how to begin. Just think for a minute Dr. Bird tells us. Take your time.

            I stare at the top floor of Reavis Hall, at the third window from the left, and run my pen up and down the notepad until a blotted version of the window’s frame oozes through the page. I keep dragging the pen across the paper, leaving behind thick black trails of ink.

            Funny how dark the window looks from here, yet I can clearly imagine the interior of the building. The safe and quiet secrecy of it. The yellowing tile, chipped chalkboards and small desks. The oak door we locked on Valentine’s Day when a trembling woman, on her own Paul Revere ride, warned us of a gunman unloading shotgun rounds into a crowd of our peers.

            The March sun presses its warmth against our skin, stronger than usual, like it knows we need comfort. I retrace the window until it darkens, changes. An imperfect square.

            I remember the messenger’s words, how they shivered out of her mouth but burned through us. Lock your doors. You need to lock your doors. There is a shooter on campus. No details of where, of what type of danger we were in. She shook us awake like a nightmare and vanished.

            I remember gasps. Haunting gasps. The lights shut off, the entire class pressed into a corner, professor included, linking arms and crying.

            I remember minutes of stillness, an empty hall through the door. We crept to the window and peered out of it, the shades not fully opened, and saw the roundabout filled with ambulances lined up like a procession. Waiting.

Dr. Bird breaks the silence again. I find it’s always best to write outside. It allows the mind to see clearer. Keep thinking. Keep trying.

            From my spot on the hill I can see through an overhang that connects Reavis Hall to DuSable. On the other side is the back of Cole Hall, the four steel doors where the shooter reportedly entered with his guitar case full of ammo, pistol and shotgun.

            My cousin John called first. Are you alright? Shit’s crazy. Good. Good. Be safe. I love you man. He was watching on TV—I told him where I was. The square brick building next to Cole Hall. Third window from the left. Told him to tell family I was okay. Shortly after we hung up the networks clogged. Our phones stopped working.

            Then came the stretchers. One by one from Cole Hall to the roundabout, white sheets splattered with blood. Then the boom of our cries.

            Who is it? Can you see? Can you tell? Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh God Oh my God.

A soft voice interrupts. I wrote a poem. I’m not much of a poet, but I wrote one, and I think I’ll share it, and then you’re free to go.

            Dr. Bird’s poem starts with the knock on the door. The woman breaking the news. Colleague. A bloodless face doing duty. Brave.

            Then one student hugging another, wiping away tears and whispering peace

            Then the image of two students by the door, an act of protection, comforting the class.

           

            When the stretchers stopped coming, two hours later, the woman returned to our door.

The shooter is dead. Campus is safe. You may leave.

            As the last of the ambulances sped away, hundreds of students filed from buildings and onto this hill. Most hugged, comforted, tried calling parents. A few investigated the trail of blood, still warm, that zig-zagged from Cole Hall to the roundabout. A stain as proof of death. Nobody knew what to do next, nobody left.

            Dr. Bird chokes through the final line of her poem. She looks up to the third window from the left, the windows around it, then back to the grass. Students swirl around us on the sidewalks and move in and out of the doors of Reavis Hall. The patter of their shoes and noise of their chatter are more apparent against the silent memory of death. I watch them from my seat on the hill, no words on my notepad. Just a window, its thick and unshakeable frame surrounded by bricks, linking together, forward.