FRUIT FLY

 

I peel a Clementine tangerine for

my young daughter, and immediately,

seemingly willed into existence

from thin air, there you are, circling,

assessing, navigating the smoothest

possible surface on which to land.

No time, I suppose, for introductions,

or easing your way into a room.

Your lifespan here, after all, is so brief,

and your thirst relentless, ancestral.

Strange, then, to consider our shared DNA,

invisible ladder reaching between us,

the opposing engines of our bodies,

our separate intuitions and needs,

ostensibly whole worlds apart.

Yet you are somehow always familiar,

inventing and erasing yourself on

the shifting periphery, bumping into

the white plastered walls, as if motion

itself were the only true means

of survival, and sweetness -- the very

sweetness of this world -- worthy

of every possible risk.

WE ARE STILL HERE

 

We are still here, do you understand,

standing amidst the mountains

of rubble where our children now play,

their faces reflected in the shattered glass

of storefronts and depots, the stagnant

water filling in the tracks behind you.

We have scorched the earth to ash

in order to welcome you, burned down

the humble homes our fathers built

so that you may not know their comfort.

There will be no bed for you here,

no rooms for you to enter, not a single

floorboard for you to walk upon.

For we are still here, do you understand,

singing the old songs and the new,

whistling past the graveyards you have

built as swiftly as we can fill them.

We have, you will see, made room there

for you. We are not uncivilized.

We give you seeds to fill your pockets.

We build statues of you in the snow.

We stand, you will come to know,

as the deep forest stands, unyielding,

breathing in the entirety of sky at once.

We are still here, as even you can plainly see.

We will continue to be here until not

a single blade of grass remains,

nor a single mayfly buzzing in flight,

nothing but the breath that breathes life

into these words, however simple,

upon which we will stand, beginning anew.

THE BUGGY

 

You won't remember now being quite

so small, combing that long stretch of Carolina

sand for rocks, shells, anything shining,

the ocean insistently whispering its secret

language, untranslatable upon land.

Nor will you recall the wheels of your stroller

edging closer and closer to the waves,

so slowly that none of us took notice,

none but that stout Eastern European woman

in head scarf, waving her thick arms,

shouting in alarm, "The buggy! The buggy!'

For one flashing moment, my heart leapt

like a startled fish, believing she might actually

be right, that you might be spirited away

by the unforgiving Atlantic, to Scotland

or Wales, those fabled white cliffs of Dover,

closer to your family's ancestral home

but further from the ones who love you here.

But, of course, you were right there

when we turned to look, your beach hat

shielding your eyes, your chubby legs

just beginning to learn what they're for,

ready, soon enough, to carry you anywhere.

MYSTERY GIRL

 

She said her name was

Silence, and to call whenever

I wanted to talk, or even

if I didn't -- and sometimes

especially if I didn't. I have been

doing so religiously for all

these years, with little to show

now but these lines written

to and from myself, and to the

nameless gods who hide

amongst the bruise-colored

clouds and answer, in their way,

only when it rains.