Monday, July 22, 2013

"What Arms You Have Afterward"

"what arms you have afterward."
prodigy. progeny. progée. 
when i am alone i eat a lot of
salad, pancakes and cheese sandwiches.
what i want now are clear directions - (i'd like to be
as reliable as the dishwasher)
what to say to him,
how to use my afternoon
                        when time is nothing like money
                        and learning matters as much as ever (but is
                        no longer a number on a page)
how count the inches the morning glory vine
climbed, curling around the rail?
how bless the basil     large enough i finally snipped three leaves
today, careful as a baby's first haircut?
what to make
of all the bugs i save and bring outside, tilting my hand
against a leaf until they crawl off?
too much in the closet, too much in the mind. and where to find
a nesting place.

Quote: Carl Nellis, "Feathered"


  1. Scissor the leaves, swallow,
    crawl, full to bursting, just somewhere
    out of sight.
    Silk yourself in wax and wait
    in the dark, encased.

    It's true, the vines grow while you
    hang in stasis.
    It's true, the growth of the world
    passes before the closed eye

    Imbroglio in brotherhood, no
    the shell will help.
    The inner wing must

    tear at the cocoon.

    When no nest is
    a roost
    might have to do. Until

    such a time
    as the dishwater drains,
    and the dishes once well used,
    now well washed,
    emerge smooth and white,
    glistening wet.

    They are slowly fanned
    in the streetlight to throw off
    the last drops of water.