Of Nectar

This entry is part 21 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

 

After my first child was born, my mothers came to the hospital with a pot of clam broth.
Drink, drink, they urged; to let down the milk: so the child will suck of your nectar.

I didn’t know what it would feel like for my waters to break— Toward dawn, I dreamt
salt-smells from the sea. The sheets were soaked. Not mild, light hidden in night’s nectar.

Sometimes, one craves fish and rice, green mangoes, fermented shrimp. Other times,
nothing except yogurt: only what’s bland, nothing wild. Until the tongue misses nectar.

To this day it isn’t known who wrote that poison pen letter. Familiar diction; details
that couldn’t have been known, dredged up to revile— Clearly, someone denied nectar.

Most days I prefer savory to sweet: laurel or bay leaf, pink peppercorns, zest of ginger;
blend of cardamom and anise, piquant over mild. But it depends on who offers the nectar.

I pressed my forehead to glass to feel its cool aloofness; then against the weave of your
coat, the warmer folds of your nape. Don’t say memory denies the thickening of nectar.

Half my life is over, or only just begun. I’ve wished so long for a home of my own:
honeysuckle vines in the shade, stone patio tile; hummingbirds come to drink nectar.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Visitations

This entry is part 20 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

 

Late afternoon, coming back from the store and planting three-dollar solar lights along the walk, we hear the night heron again from its nest in the tree: harsh, high-pitched squawks, yips almost like a feisty puppy’s at the end. We’ve seen four of them: skulking around our trash bin, or hanging around the fish pond in the neighbor’s yard. They bend their heads to the water, fluff out their wings, ripple them. And the river’s close— so we know they must forage for snails, small fish, fiddler crabs, along the shallows. Directly underneath where they roost, the pavement’s splattered grey and white like a Jackson Pollock. One of them comes so close, so suddenly, to the fence by the kitchen window— You look up and at first, there’s nothing there but the overgrown ivy; then one dark eye, glittering like a thieved ruby.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Intro to Lit

Then there was the semester when it seemed nothing we read or wrote or did or said in class, could move this one student. He always sat at the end of the first row in a sprawl, arms crossed, feet thrust out so others filing in or out of the room would have to take care not to stumble over them. When called on, either he refused to speak, shrugged or mumbled Beats me or I thought we were reading another story today so I don’t know about that one, causing much eye-rolling among his cohorts in the room. Until the afternoon we were discussing Gogol’s “The Overcoat,” and we had gotten to the part toward the end when Akaky, coming back from the office party, loses his overcoat to thugs on the bridge; and the months that follow, when the clerk languishes from illness in his poor rooms and dies. In the general discussion, this kid in class said, almost blasé— I don’t see what the big deal is: it’s just an overcoat— and something snapped in me. I can no longer remember exactly what I said, only that I flung words I’d hoped might— what? cut to the bone? move a stone? Perhaps I cast on lines about privilege or empathy, something about the way stories are knitted to real life. But in every new class, with every new student, he’s there and we are all Akaky’s ghost: the story’s his, the story’s ours, from its collar of cat fur down to its tailored hems. The casting-on, the fitting isn’t where it begins, but in some prior intention we don’t often know until we rip the parts back to the rib to see how the toothed patterns helix and grow.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Reading the Icelandic Sagas.

You will have to do things you have never done before

Recalculate the seasons. Rewrite The Farmer’s Almanac. Research new forms of lightning vanes for multi-forked strikes. High, thin and cold cover of cirrus clouds: find out how to thin them more. Falling sunlight, melting ice. The pull of gravity reaching deep into the bones. And yes, there are days when nothing seems to work, and I don’t know how to comfort you. I try to remember what my grandmother said about herbs and hallucinogenics: which leaves, when chewed, bring on a clammy sweat and which, when pounded into paste, lead one briefly to clear water in the middle of a lake. Lying beneath a black sky you might feel the tremors beginning again under the earth. It is a hundred degrees, close to midnight. A fig tree at the edge of the field has put forth a few small knobs of fruit. Swelling out like hips, not quite ripe yet; but how sadly erotic they are. Winds like knives slash at the topmost parts of trees. Months ago, most of the water found exit hatches. Silvery rivulets drained into the ground, leaving their dry calligraphy behind.

 

In response to small stone (110) and What the Night Horse Said.

Throttle Ghazal

This entry is part 19 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

 

In the heart of the downtown section, a stretch of cobblestone streets:
they stop motorists from gunning through them at full throttle.

Don’t put the cart before the horse, don’t jump from the frying
pan into the fire: in other words, don’t go at full throttle.

Who finds caution in the wind? Who gleans the stitches
from the timid rhyme? Not the young, going at full throttle.

In the school parking lot, I skirt the second speed bump when I can. They’re there
for a reason
, says the youngest daughter: to keep you from going full throttle.

On my bookshelf is a History of Doubt, filled with stories of ancient thinkers and
medieval cynics: anyone who might have said Not so fast, not at full throttle.

Who pays heed anymore? Three birds in succession thunk against the glass. Which
one is pursuer, which pursued? Danger and excitement. Dance at full throttle.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

These are the leaves we are hearing now

The kitchen boy comes out of the restaurant door, swinging a bag of trash. On the way to the dumpster he pauses under the crepe myrtles in full and premature flower, under the magnolias and their profusion of heavy blooms. It’s nearly midnight but the heat is thick as a double velvet drape in an old-time movie theatre, and the sounds of rasping in the trees are like instruments being tuned in the orchestra pit. The cooks have gone home, and the sushi chef. Only the waitresses are still inside. The security guard with the name of a crone comes out of his car and walks around the parking lot, peers into the lit windows of the sports store. The Pho restaurant’s been closed since nine; the sign in neon-colored chalk advertising their new bubble tea has muted to one shade: that of a rusty hinge. Hidden from view, a hundred forewings translating texture; tymbals rasping along the insect’s abdomen, to make the sound of the leaves we are hearing now.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Leaf wings.

Annual

“Live, said the liver.
Hear, said the heart.”

 

Open wide, place your feet
in the stirrups

Say aaahh and nothing more
as your pockets are swabbed

for bits of loose change
Make a fist to prime the vein

Blow a little air through closed
lids and watch the needle skitter

Afterwards fold the robe into a paper
shade to hang above the table

 

In response to Via Negativa: Self-destruction.

Amarillo

This entry is part 17 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

 

Overheard lunchtime conversation: Longing is a color, just as much as a state.
And as I turn to the window, goldfinches pass through the trees like a yellow wind.

Along the boardwalk, shops sell puka shell bracelets, batik sarongs, T-shirts silkscreened
Virginia is for Lovers. Skateboarders on the street, zipping by like day-glo wind.

See the parasailers aloft in their tethered vests. Waves roll in and crash, then roll out
again. The beach is dotted with collapsible tents, ochre-striped flaps open to the wind.

From someone’s radio, the dance theme from Slumdog Millionaire. I’m seized by
a craving for lemon rice, mango chutney, some hint of chillies and saffron in the wind.

Some days are impermeable, asbestos. Other days spontaneously combust. The thing is,
there’s no warning panel with lights flashing yellow, no siren blaring into the wind.

Amarillo‘s another name for the blossom of the Caraiba, Tabebuia, or Araguaney:
long-throated flowers emerge after leaves have shed, rustling like gold foil in the wind.

Dear sunflower, you are too faithful, following that scorcher all day— Has he ever
bent to kiss your hot golden head? No? But rain’s been kind; and the cool wind.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

What We’ll Remember

This entry is part 16 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

 

We’ll remember this as the summer when hail rained down as large as peaches, when whips of lightning tore through the humid air. We’ll remember this as the summer when we woke and looked up to see a sky filled with clouds in the shape of women’s pendulous breasts; when every day as we walked from one end of the field to the other, it seemed the cicadas’ agitated chirping might rival the noise of oncoming trains. And we’ll remember this as the summer of startling sightings: wild birds far from home, a man-of-war sailing into the harbor, cannons firing in salute; and a body washed up on the river’s edge. A cerulean warbler sang incessantly in the yard, and doctor’s reports recommended the cutting away of some parts. We’ll remember this as the summer of swiftest change: how we walked, mornings and evenings, past fences overgrown with wisteria— their opulent scent already balanced on the rim of decay.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.