Poetry

for Mick Vranich   Back when I used to be Indian I am sitting in a booth in a late night café, Chicago draped around me like anxious, wasted breath. Across the shiny tabletop Raven leans toward his coffee, wrapping the white cup with long fingers hardened from bending over sawhorses and hammering guitars. Music…

And up and down the ragged coast gulls draft on the high blue airs, coast the underside of the nimbus drifting past reach, big as a bus on a high and skinny road. Wave goodbye. It is leaving now. Waive any right to see it again. The bright stars, the prickly stars, gain on the…

What a strange time it is. Princess Diana dies. (Not even sure if she’s a real princess although stupidly she was called the people’s princess.) Then Mother Theresa dies. In honor of Diana. (?) Maybe to appease God, maybe to apologize. Then Ted Turner gives a billion dollars (sort of) to the UN. With strings….

Back when I used to be Indian I am stretched out beneath her, the thin white curtains waving like wings above our bed. The drowsy bird of me unfolds into her hands. She grins, crawls over me, shakes her head. The long, black feathers of her hair fall between my teeth as I rise into…

The heart shifts shape of its own accord—from bird to ax, from pinwheel to budded branch. It rolls over in the chest, a brown bear groggy with winter, skips like a child at the fair, stopping in the shade of the fireworks booth, the fat lady’s tent, the corn-dog stand. Or the heart is an…

Washington, D.C. The cabdriver from Sierra Leone, who missed his home, but doubted he would ever go back, maneuvered the car on its bald tires in the snow and slush like a fish through the sparse traffic from Washington Circle to the Museum of Natural History. The people in charge of my country, he said,…

Theseus had one the first time he went hunting the minotaur, an embarrassing little tale the bards usually ignore, but it’s true as the golden beard on Hercules’s face. Theseus took his sword and ball of string, then wound his way through much of the labyrinth, his marching boots thudding hollowly on the earth, then…

                        and remote, and useful, if only to itself. Take the fly, angel of the ordinary house, laying its bright eggs on the trash, pressing each jewel out delicately along a crust of buttered toast. Bagged, the whole mess travels to the nearest dump where other flies have gathered, singing over stained newsprint and reeking…

                     There it was, happening in spite of cold slant rain, crosscut of wind against our faces, and the          spent light of the shortest                      day of the year—a muddy cow on her huge side, all four feet stretched straight out in the air,          heaving                      to push what looked like a swollen…