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.