(This poem is in honor of the great Seamus Heaney, 1939-2013)
There were caterpillars digging
into the earth, soft
as cookie crumbs spooned
from the top of the milk.
Those dark dots against
the white like fish
floating upwards.
A memory of swimming
where the green algae
hid the shine of the scales.
They seemed suddenly so
dull like the way chocolate
loses its shine and tastes
of sweetened chalk.
The fingers trailing across
the blackboard caused
thoughts of how words
were so easy to wipe away
but left faint ghost
outlines like dreams imprinted
on a bedroom wall after
waking too fast.
In the dream they keep
digging, digging until
they reach the bottom
of the world. It looks
like the night sky painted
on a canvas right before
anything is added
but the dark.
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I never liked the trick
with the girl and the swords.
The magician would lead her
to the box;
she’d peek inside, as if
expecting it to lead somewhere
unusual, a book-filled desert or
an ice cream shop that only served root beer
floats, right before entering.
The door would shut
and I’d always think she was going to knock;
a reverse invitation of
come in.
Then the magician would use
a blade, always one that shone under
stagelights and stab through so
so quick like hot water warmed spoons
into sherbert. How many times
does it take of hearing the blade
and then silence
before you stop holding your breath?
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and what do their faces look like
in your memory, not in photos,
because your memory is where he was
mysterious and she
was beautiful and
isn’t that best?
You know we carry them,
too, like extra layers of clothing
barely perceptible but weighting
us still.
And if anyone ever asks you
what the time is at
the bottom of nothing, realign
your watch so that it only ever
reads one time.
Have we told you that we are
a train stuck in the middle
of a tunnel and whistling
both past and towards us
are the ones we have left?
Ask us now
who are our living
and we will tell you
they are mysterious
and beautiful and
just like you always passing
us so close.
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Keys will leave you wanting
something of their own
there are no locks they will
not covet, feverishly metal
hot, and turning
into something else, freed
they will discover that form
is water, shape is ghosts
who can’t remember their own
names, and you
are stone struck buildings
with windows but
no doors. Keys will leave
you wanting. Keys will
leave you locked.
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You said swim and we swam
in the ocean and the cuts up
our bodies stung gently
like fading memories of when
the bees swarmed.
Do you still often dream
of lands consumed by flood?
The tips of pine trees
sticking out of the water.
a new impossible swamp grass.
You told me stories of fish
walking on dry land
in a city where the streets
were paved with glass.
Do you know the time you called
out for me I thought
you were someone else because in echoes
you grew old?
You are one I sometimes dream
of, you at the edge where
we watch the people leaping off
the cliffs and you always tell me
they are only hoping to cleanse their wounds.
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