Rutherford County
even a stupid, static hunk of plastic
sits between two stories, under constant tension
being on the brink of being
ripped apart
the poor kid on one end who saves for months
to pick up that pawn shop copy of Donkey Kong Country
there under the glass, just by the boot-knives
and the poor kid on the other end
whose mama pawned it
Study
She asked me, qu’est-ce
qui vous manquerait?
and I couldn’t answer.
Même en anglais…
The density, like a star.
Certain sounds.
We live in a city of rooms —
what’s the difference?
Tack up your little Sorolla
study by the writing table, the high sun
and highlights. Isn’t it
enough? The tangram paradox of summer,
the out-of-place white
cutting line of the niña’s dress
posed like another question: what’s a poem
sound like, anyway? The waves
or the howling air
between rooms. Echoes in a vacant organ,
a breath
with the mouth held wide
open like an O.
We live
in one room or another,
in the kaleidoscopic shadow-
side of a downturned face.
Wild as the mares
would like to be, keeping time
by the Balearic.
Keeping time,
which just means letting it pass
like fingers
through the bristle-backed devils of marram
grass. A slow breath
and a stretch of lean muscle. Striated
sand like a protective sheet
of tissue, a tendon-
like aponeurosis.
Shelter from the storm
on the little black-and-white
incisor-looking blue-
tooth speaker, a song
from one room or another,
one body or another.
Fumbling for difference,
trying to answer the question,
to move forward.
Image by Mika Wegelius on Unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Two Poems: Rutherford County and Study - April 11, 2025