Tessa is moving to Chicago. I’m pretty bummed out about this: we’ve been at long distances before, but for the last year, we’ve been reasonably close in geography. Chicago, though… that will necessitate planes and things. It’s for a job, and it’s a good cause she’s working for, and it might be just for a year, but still: I’ve gotten spoiled by having her nearby. She is a positive force in my life, and it’s good to have those people at the nearer Kepler points. (But either way, I wish her the best, and know she’ll do a stellar job in her job, and hopefully we can still do Curio, and that reminds me that I need to get some Curio stuff done…)
Chicago got me thinking about Donna Vorreyer! And thus, this poem is for the Poetry Mix Tape prompt to do a poem with curious anatomical nomenclature and/or a five-part night or day poem. This is how it ended up; a lot of it is invented; I’m okay with it, though. There’s a lot of disparate threads connected to it that I could have follow, but I tried to keep it succinct. Note: the two opening lines are a common mnemonic for remembering the names of the eight wrist bones, and the whole poem stemmed from there. (Well, yoga and Buddhism and sexuality got in there too.) I hope the title is appropriately ambiguous.
Chicago also got me thinking about AWP. I notice that next year it’s in Boston, which is much easier to get to; and I think I’m going to apply for the scholarship to the Winter Getaway in South Jersey again in January. With the Dodge in October, could I possibly go to three poetry events within a six month span? Hmm…
I’ve been getting back into the idea of long-form poetry. (At the same time, I’m getting back into the idea of really short poetry.) There’s a couple ideas that I want to pursue, but I think I’m going to have to go to a park with my journal or something, and just write free from distraction for a couple hours to really let the thoughts echo. I have four specific things I want to write, some of which I’ve been collecting fragments of for over a year now. The year is half-over, and I want to rollercoaster my way into the finish with some acceleration and turning of new leaves; perhaps this will be one of them.
Some lovers try positions
that they can’t handle:
Yahtzee bones punctuate each other
under the too-strong hand, the lunate with
its waning curve, the trapezoid’s tipped
tabletop– their rummaging
with a pained cry.
We unfurl a smudge-stick
and crack open massage oils: we will not
speak of tantric failure.
There is no better way
to reduce the self, simmer and boil down
the consciousness of broken trust.
The frictionless touch on the
invisible skin: we call back to the crickets
with the churring of wounded tigers.
I groped for a glass of water
and when I returned, I stood
in the doorway, flinging a line
from heart to heart, to your body,
in the bed, complicating the air.
We are not supposed to believe our eyes.
Reality appears at the most useless times,
so we have to make the most of it:
I would rather
spend it together here with you.
When you remove the tricks of light,
riddle me this–
The mattress creaks under
doubled weight; the witching hour
opens into an umbrella to stave off
one medical hand grips its patient
and the dry space keep itself awake with
whispering; me– you– us–
this– aum– here– aum– now–