by JS Gilbert
I gave my dog a carrot.
She nosed it into the
ground, into the grass
and walked away, having
reached the end of some
dog-algorithm that tells
her a carrot is worth
saving, grass for safe-
keeping, and that I will
always wait to watch,
with two hands and a
face she’s allowed to lick.
I vowed to write this poem before
allowing myself a nap in the middle
seat squozen between my wife and
an inattentive father seated just
behind his daughter who may as well
have been left at Disneyworld where
princesses stand guard behind topiaries
and garbage cans and other princesses
to emerge in case of indifference
to curtsy and wave and wink
at this little girl peeking between
the seats to make damn sure she
is seen and known and loved which
is usually my job but
I had a poem to write, and a nap to take.
before your son leaves for college
take him for a walk along the beach.
Stay by his side without holding his
hand. As you avoid drift woods
and tides and fly-clouded corpses, drift
away and let his pace outpace yours.
Step in his footprints. Notice that his
feet have outgrown yours. Notice that
your stride can match his stride.
Notice that it’s not worth the effort.
Look askance, all you
want, at a people who
draped their cats as
queens, in gold and lapis
and jasper and jade,
or shaved their eyebrows
in lamenting grief when
their whiskered royals
sauntered through Duat to
bask beneath Ra’s passing,
but have you, a lap
among a sea of laps, ever
been so richly blessed by
an ambivalent god brushing
against your shins?
Billy Collins doesn’t
have a Twitter account so
you’ll have to follow him
more craftily. Not
in his footsteps, but
slightly to the right or
farly to the left, or
with binoculars as he
serpentines through an alpine
pass, hoping you never find
the map he left crumpled
beneath the coffee grounds.
In 1980 the Yomiuri Giants
signed outfielder Gary Thomasson
for 1.2 million dollars
which he used to birth
a metaphor by sitting
on the bench, hitlessly waving
his bat and spinning,
they said, like
a Giant Human Fan.
And so ‘Thomasson’ came to
represent a contradictory remnant
within our built environment.
Once usefully functional,
now functionally useless,
yet conspicuously maintained.
A doorknob in a wall;
a bridge connecting two halves of air;
a spiral staircase, leading
I don’t know how much God
spent building me, and I could
probably figure the maintenance
from gas bills and groceries
and Netflix subscriptions but
I know the cost to save me
so I so often pray that I am
more than a doorless balcony and
that he would, once, tell me
where my stairs
His single sheet
of lined paper
was aligned with his
single pencil
which rested atop
his single table which
wobbled next to mine.
And though his hands
were folded, waiting,
and though his eyes
were fixed, unwavering,
into space, I think
I was more expectant.
They say cats bring gifts, wriggling, to
our doorsteps because they don’t trust
us to feed ourselves and so we should be
thankful for snakes, voles, moles, and mice
carried haughtily up the steps but
I’m not the one who falls off the bed.
Still I couldn’t think of a damn
thing to write. Couldn’t catch the bird
in the bush despite the pen in my hand
as he sauntered toward the screen,
robin thrashing in his jaws, and said,
through a mouth-full of feathers,
‘Well?’
It’s Their Cheese
Certainly, O Dark-Souled Dane, a hintish
tickle of rank and foetid currents
weeping beneath your kingdom’s feet, but have
you, Unsettled Prince, sensed what stirs
across the ocean? A waft of acrid faith
twined with sourful pride beneath a haze
of festerous free, towering rot. Not some
thing, but many. Many things.