Anniversary
Possum skeleton crushed down
so deep into the road it’s the road
where you found me, verge of sleeping
pill in my mouth chased with vodka
stored in my flask, & you got out of
that Nissan with the horrible timing
chain, touched my cheek in that careful
Midwestern way, I tossed the ripped
backpack which was my poor body
& we rode. Ice-laced rain broke
on the windshield only to re-atomize
in your wide, brown eyes measuring
the klutzy waltz I had with the vacuum
until I fell through your apartment’s
cheap tile wall & into the meth addicts’
place next door: Flooded pantries,
flooded toilets, & clumps of hair
on their coffee table, you said baby
what we have here is what we might say
is a bad idea, like a drive-thru liquor store
on Saturday night, like a tea party
where the stuffed animals are decapitated
& the toddlers stand shell-shocked. You
waved your hand, a courtyard & small
bungalow flickered into being. You
opened the wrought iron gate, the ferns
went green upon your short lovely
fingers & you said I don’t think we need
water. From there on out, your hair
undulated on the left side of your face
which smelled like chocolate bars
& lemon tree barks & never failed
to electrocute then defibrillate starlings.
You took off your shirt: diamonds wept.
You opened your mouth to kiss my
shoulder: every skeleton in every grave
erupted out of the ground clapping.
Why did you want me when I was
nothing like an Austen novel, nothing
worth putting an engine in, every word
I spoke like a turtle flipped on its shell,
its little legs kicking in that unintentionally
funny way turtles have of dying. You
knew we were bound to fall, the center
of a field of hay in rural Slovakia where
the villagers say, Fuck you, I love you,
& I know my hands are little claws
you slide rubber gloves on so I don’t nip
& I worry you will see my face one day
& feel a disappointment turn granite
in your guts, but you were always an ace
with a chisel, a deep thinker in a seismic
era, & though I am broken in fifty ways
& though it’s not your job to superglue
please again make me something other
than stuttering me: make me a baby.
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About the Author
Joseph P. Wood, author of the forthcoming books of poetry: Fold of the Map and I & We, is co-founder of Slash Pine Press and curator of the Slash Pine Poetry Festival.
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colours recalling
sounds and a
sweet sensibility
you touch my
desire, the inner
relief and a
delicate sadness
that covers
the sun.
Francesco Sinibaldi