Something Bright Then Holes Page 2
but the whole lot is toxic. In the ides of July,
it’s suddenly quite cold, Canadian air
chilling each spot I’ve sweat. One by one
the floodlights wink on, abolishing
night, soon all the colors will be illumined
by artificial light, thus separating us from
our ancestors. Now a woman appears
beside me, she has good-smelling coffee,
sandals, binoculars, says she wants to see
the raccoons. No one has seen them for days.
The fireflies have dried up too, so the kids
have been bringing their own in jars.
You’re robbing this of joy, you tell me
as if I were the thief, as if
I had the goods in hand.
*
The summer before the summer
I don’t feel like going down
to the canal today. The summer’s
halfway through, and already
over. No more words
from the field! Thus begins
the slow slide back
to my life, back
to the plans I drew
before the summer
became the summer
of wanting you
*
These days
Last night a stranger called
at 2 a.m., said, THE CODE WORD
IS SHOES. If only it were
that easy. I get so happy
when I think that you
exist, it’s this creepy
euphoria, the other night
I felt so high, one of
the bar regulars brought me
a cardboard box from
the dumpster, so I could
break dance, blow off
some steam. I hear
they have to shut off
one of the canal’s
propellers, probably this
winter, so that the stench
doesn’t come up. I don’t see
why they don’t just fix it
instead of leaving the water
to rot. Yet I know
it’s so much work
to dredge it, to face a century
of muck. These days
the world seems to split up
into those who need to dredge
and those who shrug their shoulders
and say, It’s just something
that happened. A century ago
there was a Miss Gowanus
contest here, a woman
with a sash on a barge. Now
there’s a metal railing
so that people don’t dump
their cars. Our talks somehow
settle my heart, you said. Me too.
Though how can it be, as
my heart has become so unsettled
by you. But I trust you
to take care of
yourself, and in a sense
that’s all that matters. And
I, too, am finally learning
something similar, how
to protect the spirit’s grandeur.
*
37 days
after work I stumble down to the edge, unable to resist
the lure. 37 days since I found you and lost you, 37 days
of feeling lost and found. I don’t want to be writing
these poems into winter, the outline of your cock
still etched in my brain, all new life hiding or dying
as the canal chokes with ice. for now it’s still summer,
the red lights on the drawbridge making wavy red slits
on the water, bringing a strange sort of peace, until a car
comes careening down the block with its headlights off
and two guys jump out to piss. then I’m just another girl
in a dress, a roll of twenties in her pocket, risking it.
*
Another night falls
It’s been hot, the violets
are tired. The daisies
are peeling, and my whole hand
is shaking. Two Rastas
have parked at the edge to play
loud music, but even they
can’t compete with the wind.
One heart, so many different
truths. As if on cue, the man in black
arrives, this time on a bike. He’s so old,
I didn’t know he could ride. But really
he can do anything. My desire is so
fierce, I came down to air it out
and still I feel it shred the space
around me. Tomorrow I will paint
another spot of oil on my sternum
for clarity. You always put the cart
before the horse, you tell me.
It’s the promise that has to come first.
You may be right, or that may be right
for you, but I have to stay down
here, I have to watch the yellow leaves
float on the surface, spinning in
the constant wind. Queen Anne’s lace
graces the banks, sunflowers
climb the aluminum wall, the Rastas
move on. There is a truth that
I’m going for, but I can only sketch
its contours. God knows
I am still waiting for an answer.
*
“What is it?”
A sad dusk here, the water
swollen with debris.
The blue wrapper of an Almond Joy;
the hourglass of a Maxi.
Some of the garbage sinks, inexplicably
but most of it just floats by
A bag of Lay’s, another Maxi.
Today the man in black wears
glasses; I wonder how much
one has to drink to achieve
that nose. Yet I get the feeling
he doesn’t drink anymore.
He greets a filthy dog brought
by a skinny hippie. The dog’s teeth
are blood-stained, his hair
falling out in clumps. He doesn’t
really know what he wants, the hippie says
as his dog sniffs the water.
Join the club, says the man in black.
The hippie tells us his dog
has terrible luck. A week ago
it fell into a silo; yesterday
it got electrocuted while peeing
on a pole. We don’t really know
how to respond. The sky is amazing
tonight, full of blurry swans.
Why should I keep writing you? I ask.
Because there’s a purity in it. And so
there is. When the hippie finally leaves,
the man in black whispers to me:
It walks like a parrot, is scrawny,
fishes, and has dark legs. What is it?
How the hell should I know?
I’m living a lie.
*
All Those
for JR
I charge myself with
impatience, chicanery
then call you for
the diagnosis
You say it’s just the spirit
looking out for its own
vastness, yes
But still I envy
all those who are hungry
and get fed, all those
who still use recreational drugs
Those happy & fat with child
Those who tell the truth
and delight in it, those who believe
in a compassionate
wilderness, those
whose bodies beget
an absolute forgetfulness.
Have you ever met
one of those people
who can pick out any tune
on any instrument, then
fill the night with sound?
*
Today’s storm
 
; After we talked, the rain came down
in torrents, rushing down
the cobblestones, all forces
breakneck to the water. Nothing
could stop it. The man in black
stood at the edge, sporting
a poncho, asked me
if I had come for a dip. I said
I was already wet, and
how true. Though today
I felt it: you don’t want me
as much as I want you.
Sad, as they say, but true.
Still you like to hear me
say it, so I’ll tell you again:
I want you. I want you.
It’s a relief to be bereft
of shame, of guilt, to know
what you want. To want.
And if you don’t want me
there is still no shame, only
white legs of lightning,
thunder.
*
“A Somber Poem”
The lowest tide I’ve yet seen
A giant blue crab hangs
from a chrome shopping cart
on the canal floor, the depths
suddenly visible. They say
a gang of homeless teens
has set up camp
in the cliff; now a curious rope
dangles from the cement
carcasses. A college kid
is growing sea grasses
in floating boxes, the desk in the weeds
has been completely hacked
up, just another piece of junk
along with the umbrellas
and wildflowers. At dusk
a canal-sitter brings me a sheaf
of his poems. They have
amazing titles, like “Big on Pig,”
“A Somber Poem,” and
“The Savior of Sour.”
I promise to return
the favor. The sky moves
from gray to yellow to blue
and I am missing you in the way
that spreads. I’m trying
to wear my freedom like
an amulet, make it something
I’ll never forget.
*
The Birder
I know the birder is here
before I see him, he leaves
the soft leather case
for his binoculars
on the cement slab, then
climbs over to perch
atop the rowboat’s back.
See that small white rectangle
across the canal? he asks.
I don’t, but I nod.
This morning I packed three gigantic
peanut butter sandwiches, then took out
the red canoe. Planted the food
along the cliff, then watched all day
to see what would come eat it.
He says only one sandwich
is left; the others were eaten
by an opossum, or maybe just
a giant rat. No birds
today? I ask.
*
Seen it all
Just when you thought
you’d seen it all
A man stands by
the open passenger door
of a parked S.U.V.
rocking steadily, eerily
It takes a moment to see
he’s fucking a body
Not male nor female, just thighs
White, hairy, gargantuan thighs
pushed overhead. Suddenly
he backs away a little dazed
Lights a cigarette, staggers into
the street. A moment later
a woman gets out, pulling up
her fuchsia bike shorts. He flicks
his cigarette down the street,
they get back in their seats,
and they’re gone.
*
6:30 a.m.
I leave you in bed
to encounter
the grayness, the blue
barely peeking through
A pale mourning dove
shares the moment with me
but looks confused
as it totters on the pilings
This story may end
much sooner than I thought
It may end today
Or every time you think it’s over
there’ll be something more brutal
left to say. The water is dull
but still magical, and I wonder
Are the gulls lost, or is this where
they aim to be? And when did
this become a narrative of
captivity, from what am I trying
to break free? Last night’s rain
hangs on all the flowers, I thought
I would watch them through fall
and winter. The pigeons start another
wild wheel, their keeper directing them
from a roof with a tattered
black flag. A whole day
of suffering or civility
headed our way. How did it come
to this, and does it matter? We aim
to be gentle, but end up cruel
That same-old, awful
mystery. My lettuce-colored cup
runs empty.
*
Sweet and Long
Tonight all sorts of ends
shift into view, as
lightning jerks around
the clouds. I could sink
into a certain comfort
here, just disappear
Yet I sense the goddess
gearing up to create
and destroy
with one great arc
of her arm. Just don’t
touch me, not yet, or
not here. Something inside
feels broken, a number
that can no longer be
dialed. I have desired
so many times and so many
things, by some law of no
return. But I trust I will live
in my skin again, if life
is sweet and long.
*
Pink Moon
A perfect day at the canal, the sun on my back
healing me, or so I imagined. At sunset two women
took out the red canoe, just paddled around
Later I made you come down and look at the moon
thinking it might heal us, too, with its unbelievable pink
color. Yesterday we found something very hard
at our core, a fierce acorn. I don’t know
if we were born with it, or if its mass simply accrued
in the darkness. But I know the moon
has compassion for us. So does the water.
*
Saturday Morning
Last night the world
turned itself
inside-out
with rain, and I hoped
the water today
would be clear
and full. But I
should have
remembered, the rain
always brings in
the sewage. Still
the morning is
gorgeous, a solitary gull
keeps watch over
the water, the current
pulling away
from the harbor. Pale
lavender slicks
move slowly up
the surface, like
horizontal ghosts
The garden has
peaked, the flowers
sagging like hoses
out of their cement
enclosures. Only
the petunias are crawling up
the barbed wire, soon
they will make it over
the top, into the lot
of baby-blue semis,
old orange rowboats
stacked and bound
with yellow rope.
I’m not going to write
about you anymore,
/> I’m not going to write
to you. I’m not going to write
about anyone. Only
the canal. Over the years
it has been every color—
a glossy black slick,
a greasy chocolate,
a frightening froth
of white and violet.
It has been home to piles
of tires, oil fires, suitcases
full of chopped bodies.
It didn’t ask for that,
it didn’t ask for
anything. It’s not even