we could’ve been albatrosses
drifting on the wind for years
able to dip into our shadows
which would’ve tasted like salt
we could’ve been playing cards
given darkness a respectable home
instead having loved the sun
and digested light for a living
we meet our shadows
only at death
lie atop them leaching out
our vital bitters
these days i wear wonder
like a broad-brimmed hat
when the moon is dead empty
i try to lose my shadow
i cut what i thought were tethers
they turn out to be roots
when i stop writing on paper
the trees become less hostile
i could swallow what’s left of my fire
and tend bees
i would write myself out of history
line by painstaking line
Anyone who was everyone was there.
I love your new work
with shadows, I exclaimed
to a wan-looking moon.
The beech tree has seven eyes
where limbs used to be,
each of them gazing upward.
Down below, the scars
of old, knife-cut graffiti:
Smoke Up. Fly High. Manson Lives.
A warbler in the crown
of a neighboring oak,
its shadow crossing my face.
Day by day
the shadows are dwindling,
assuming more realistic shapes,
like the ambitions of a man
in middle age.
The snow hardens underfoot.
I hear the first
mourning dove call of the year:
desire in a minor key.
Clouds pull their shadows
across the snow-filled valley
as if dragging for a drowned swimmer.
I watch from the ridge,
mesmerized by the alternation
of gloom and glare.
The No Hunting sign rattles
on the electric pole
above the deep claw-marks of bears.
The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.
Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,
my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.
All this time,
six well-used deer beds
just out of sight from the porch!
The old outhouse
half-fallen into its hole—
how long has the roof been gone?
Even the snowy hillside,
the way it bends the trees’
harp-string shadows…
Beneath the streetlights
I have watched him warily
Black, stout like a thug
Sticking close to my heels.
I walk away casually, as if unhurriedly
He doesn’t follow but moves swiftly ahead
Taller, taller, he stretches himself
I hesitate, wondering what to do next.
Bravely, I walk on, as he pales himself
Into the lights and shades of the doorways –
I look around, sigh comforted
Until he looms again beneath the next streetlight.
Now behind, now at my heels,
Now snaking, now sneaking away from me,
Like an omnipresent God
He streaks in the light of a passing car.
You don’t know-
But I am still around.
Whirl around – but
You wouldn’t see me- yet.
Walk on, in blinding light
Or in comforting dark –
But – listen! My footfalls
Crushing the fallen leaves.
You don’t feel-
But smell – the breeze
The flowers carrying
My sweat pungent.
Sing on, gay, heart light
Let hair swirl over your face
But - listen! My voice
Rising over the winds.
In between the sporadic bursts
Between the heckling customers
The intimidating bosses
The gossiping colleagues
In between the drudgery and monotony
I doodle faces on bits of paper.
Faces of men and women
Full face and left profile –
I have grown up with these people
Though they remained the same -
Adults passing through youth.
From behind notebooks, inside novels
Corners of text books and on pages left blank -
From every possible piece of paper
These Picasso profiles stare up at my face.
Most of my women are beautiful;
Behind me,
Walking,
Always,
Syncing.
As I talk,
Listening,
Never,
Commenting.
My height,
Mimicking,
My size,
Copying.
My eyes,
Crying,
It's circles,
Despairing.