QUELLE
“An empire, I read somewhere, / Maintains itself through / The cruelty of its prisons.”
– Charles Simic
Unmistakable, we wake to the smell—
the skunk,
we know he’s back. Stars
crossed, waters unnamed. How quickly
what is sacred is forgotten
when removed from sight. As when
mid-blink, you stop,
let your guard down,
and wake to the world run as a hotel—
all expenses paid on the dotted line.
It’ll probably be fine. As evening comes,
the birds bring back crumbs:
bruised bits from the source.
Under the strain of new policies,
we watch the news. The lines
in our foreheads leap
from the mirror,
afraid they, too, will be deported.
Shallow breaths beneath
our doors: our names, ceramic,
sit in the kiln.
THRESHOLDS
Waiting at the front door for my daughter
her bus is running late and it’s raining
inside—
at the edge, I glimpse the glint of persecutions
outside. How a gust of cool wind
meets its ceramic measure,
and how the heat in this coffee will be gone
by the time the bus comes. Entering
middle age I feel
just as my son, who waking from a nap—
a deep one set within his mother’s voice—
descends the stairs,
his blanket tossed ahead, an envoy
telling time, tumbling
in mid-air.
LUNCH ON THE CANAL
Lockport, NY
On vacation near the Falls, we eat lunch at the Canal,
the one where ox pulled sleds to unearth stumps
along a red line someone drew on a map. Looking
for bagels, I find my family starring over the rail:
a man in a lime green kayak float. He’s steady along
the wall, holding an iron ladder, as if he’s done this
many times, as if rising waters in the lock were just an elevator
going up. But I, the man looking for bagels,
begin to sink into my questions. Later, I think of the man
paddling away from us as the first of a series of tears
that won’t launch from inside me. Instantly, sciatica:
a flare gun firing from hip to heel. Once men drank
whisky as payment for digging up a channel where trees
and deep roots made shade for blistered palms,
where in damp swamps the American mosquito lived
its renaissance. A golden era, each took their fill
while dirt fell down. Each wound by the eternal screw,
names are elastic bands we carry toward water
only to find seven miles of rock. Under jagged crags
of cracked escarpment, the stone splits our why—
every father’s tears, distilled, proof for the queue.
CHECKING THE WEATHER ON MLK DAY
January 20, 2025
When the day is already ablaze by breakfast,
I think of how California is three hours
behind, and how someone is just now waking
and checking the weather. Smoke rising
from ash on the ground, some residents mourn
their homes: books, photos, and bowls. Sipping
coffee, when I gaze outside, I find part of me frozen
on the horizon. So strange to shiver and hear
the furnace kicking on while western winds
ring around rescue workers. I know
what burns there also burns here. I know blazing fires and frostbite
are not the same thing, but pray their difference
is close enough to dispel guilt that’s really grief burnt
on the edge of my tongue. When there is nothing
to say, when birds attack in dreams, and danger erupts
across the land, I wonder, is there enough water
in both oceans to extinguish what consumes us? Is there
any place to go, any highway left to look
for King’s dream, hidden, lost beneath the breath
of privilege? Sulfur-laced, his words betray
what is said. Along stitches of presidential seams,
bodies billow blowing hot air. America
is bloodied, but some do not care. They know enough scripture
to know those who look back turn to salt.
BERLIN AND BACK
Locked in patterns of the popcorn ceiling above me
all my shortfalls lie open: a catalog of worry,
words squirm amid hissing stateside hate. As much
as I want to hold his hand and reminisce
about what I miss, new gravities govern
the sky and stars. We must go. Downstairs
in the dark, my child waits for God
to speak through punk rock melodies
flowing through wireless headphones. All my prayers
fly on ahead, lay unread and stacked on a nail
in customs —pronouns disintegrating as dust
between his palms. When I breathe deep,
specks of rust fly from where I set ink.
*
4 AM. Rattle, crank, break. I turn to dreams. My father’s
great grandfather, Jewish, takes the long train
to look me in the eye. What I need to know: Stay
awake. Tear your clothes, he says, it’s time to go.
My metal cheek, is it a blunt edge meant to concuss
or a shard to draw this tattoo across lower heaven
as the sign I love you. This is our stop. Great-grand ghost,
please. In a reflection above the window
I see his cheek in a flash of glass. Transfigurations, blue vessels
leak as the cars begin to move, as I glimpse the tracks
to the places where we don’t want to go. On the map
the needle goes to work. I stash what I can
on both cheeks, then witness what we’ve come for:
the old name vanished before us to reveal
his creation shining in the sun. Whom
should I fear? Manna and quail. We have
arrived. Lord, where shall we go? We have nowhere to go.
To Berlin and back. It’s time to go.
