07-22-2020, 12:37 AM
I would like to state this poem has nothing to do with the current social-political environment. I wrote it about a year ago and revised it a few months ago. Any civil war images are merely to add concreteness to the regionalism. In general I find nothing good or glorious about war.
The Idea of Order at Hollywood Cemetery
(for Emily)
This idea never collected in the several fires that carved Richmond.
Not in the stone figures, that stopped at the top of that hill
to look back at the river.
Sherman can’t hold a rusty old saber to the memory engraved in me.
There was no fire.
No wax, no poured relief, no polished alabaster,
But this not where we met,
Me with one functional leg and a cheap wheelchair,
Mostly keeping up at the museum.
You thought “I was an asshole.”
Not sure when that glass,
Six-sided box collected me.
It took me years to understand this box.
You held me as a specimen,
It still reminds me of your body,
Wet, voluting smells of the ocean,
Coax my fingers to write, hands to trace
In this mind and body.
There’s no correct proportion of you
In an architect’s vision.
You perfume my hands and face.
Phantom iridescent scenes
Ride the light of contours and surfaces
Parting thighs, we hold hands,
Tan skin, polished silver,
Flexing motion mirrored in dim light
Quivering, vision transmuted to sound,
Bones hum in our country.
I said a Tonglen for you and your son,
Thinking about Hollywood Cemetery
It may have been a thought of the future
But you called me back to the past.
I had called so many times before,
And you came to me,
Sweat soaked, drying out in that bed
Lending a hand in my dreams,
Wishing I would never wake.
The Idea of Order at Hollywood Cemetery
(for Emily)
This idea never collected in the several fires that carved Richmond.
Not in the stone figures, that stopped at the top of that hill
to look back at the river.
Sherman can’t hold a rusty old saber to the memory engraved in me.
There was no fire.
No wax, no poured relief, no polished alabaster,
But this not where we met,
Me with one functional leg and a cheap wheelchair,
Mostly keeping up at the museum.
You thought “I was an asshole.”
Not sure when that glass,
Six-sided box collected me.
It took me years to understand this box.
You held me as a specimen,
It still reminds me of your body,
Wet, voluting smells of the ocean,
Coax my fingers to write, hands to trace
In this mind and body.
There’s no correct proportion of you
In an architect’s vision.
You perfume my hands and face.
Phantom iridescent scenes
Ride the light of contours and surfaces
Parting thighs, we hold hands,
Tan skin, polished silver,
Flexing motion mirrored in dim light
Quivering, vision transmuted to sound,
Bones hum in our country.
I said a Tonglen for you and your son,
Thinking about Hollywood Cemetery
It may have been a thought of the future
But you called me back to the past.
I had called so many times before,
And you came to me,
Sweat soaked, drying out in that bed
Lending a hand in my dreams,
Wishing I would never wake.