Before
Teacher, I finally read the poet you said to
avoid years ago. You must have believed
that you were doing me good, thought that
his style was communicable, my immunity
not yet built to his simple tricks, to how
he might remove the coins from my ears.
And yes, his poems line up like volcanoes
at a science fair—only representations
of fearsome things, little boys nearby
eager to provoke a foamy bubbling over.
Teacher, you taught me something else:
avoidance, remove. X-rays show us what
Vermeer omitted: a dog from the door,
a portrait of Cupid hung behind the girl
with her mysterious missive. Here I sit,
exploring the empty corners of canvas,
wondering if anyone can author absence.
How the poet caught the click of crickets
like a cough, made a mild ruckus, a seance
out of a shaking poplar branch. Teacher,
I remember the poet visited our campus
to be celebrated, having then achieved
one of the few great honors, while just
next door, trained rats navigated tunnels,
tubes, teeter totters—one of our school’s
annual events. Those rats finding nothing
but conclusion, something worth eating.
What is complete? This weekend spent
waiting for my first child to appear,
calling all the emptiness around me
before. But, with every push of the boat
from the shore, I pull the shore along.
The book, finished, finds its slim space,
uncataloged, in before’s expanding wings.
Teacher, I’m not the same as I was then—
which is ever before—when we chose
the scrambling, expectant rats instead.
When quiet was for old men and not us.
Unison
Let’s say goodbye in unison.
Let’s clap our hands together
like cymbals. Let us be still
in this holy time of year. Let
next year be holier. Let’s say
the favorite words of the dead
master into one another’s ear.
Dark and cold and snow and
so. Let’s hum and harmonize.
Let’s say goodbye in unison.
Let’s try to breathe in unison,
the way new lovers attempt to
synchronize beside each other.
Let’s march to the mansions
of the billionaires, the castles
that were never supposed to be
here. Let’s recite those long,
perfunctory poems, those used
in worship, in unison. Let us
reach for the same library book;
this will lead to a conversation
between us about our passion
for the dead poet whose book
like a wishbone we both hold.
And then let us say goodbye
in unison, like car doors. Let’s
visit a website simultaneously,
breaking it. Let us sit before
the rushing train, our homes
on the other side of it. Let us
be quiet, in unison. Let’s learn
a dance in the distant studio,
we amateurs, a dance to be
learned and not performed.
Let us visit the dead poet’s
grave in unison, so it seems
that we just emerged from it.
Let’s say goodbye to him
in unison. Snow cold, so dark.
Then, together, to the winter,
let’s say goodbye in unison.