—Poems, and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
THE ROOM OF TINY THORNS
The room of tiny thorns
Decorated with the Skater’s Waltz.
I own comets, many of them.
All the news was already
Old by the time it found
The edge of my bed.
I didn’t mind.
Do you think I live here? There is no
Shortage of songs, but they
Ride by as if they had
No clothing. Just a fear
Of trees.
I cannot stand
It when they begin to speak.
It is nearly impossible
To imagine the future,
It doesn’t even wear decent shoes.
____________________
A EVENING IN OAKLAND
I saw the van through the window.
There was a waltz in the corner
Not understanding what it
Was supposed to do.
“Just music,” you said.
Looking at a sailing ship
From the end of the pier
As if it were revelation
And not just a couple of shots
At two kids on the sidewalk
On a Saturday night,
Walking home, splattering
Them all over the street
With beautiful swirls
Of colored lights in
The middle of downtown Oakland.
MOON AND TIDE
What eats of sin
That we must give it money
And stand away
From its ritual
At a body dismayed
By nights too long
To be considered fair
To the traipsing of the soul
Across the dry air
Of any altar made of bones
And gnashing teeth
That tries to declare
Itself a voice,
A quiet murder
Nursed by time
That we can only watch
Or stand beside
As it undoes our
Very hearts,
Moon upon precious moon
Or tide by precious tide.
NORTHERN LIGHTS
Everything I could imagine
Was your body full of Northern Lights.
And songs angels would make up
On the spot as we walked
Across all of their heavens,
Owning dreams for which we could
Not find a single word that would fit
Our own hollow bones, our own gaunt countries
Filled with these glorious winds.
Look at them.
Lay your body across mine
Right now. See what I
Am talking about
In this crazy voice.
_____________________
THE BIG SNOW
There was no wind
At all that night.
"The snow is very loud,”
She said.
I looked out the window.
Each snowflake was as big
As a wagon wheel.
THE RED BOX
She began to keep her tears
In a red box next to her bed.
By then she could no longer
Relate to most of those who
Truly loved her.
She thought
They were violins and
Questioned the way they
Made sentences to gain information.
On Christmas we took turns
Showing her images of different
Cacti and spiked plants.
She was able to identify each
One, although none of them
Were native to our climate.
“They are part of a story,”
She said, and would make
Figures by moving her hands
In a particular way.
The great bear.
The blind potter.
The maker of edge tools.
The polisher of fine silver.
The one who prayed the rosary.
The trails caused by hawks.
The second bride of the Czar.
The ‘I love you’ smile
Used only by birds.
The loa of the secret furnace.
The snow described by the dulcimer.
THE REFUGEE
The brown smile.
I have gifts to bring to you.
Can you understand
Anything that I am saying?
Noel. Noel. Noel.
She spoke with naked tongue as if
Wishing it were a welted dream
And rode the back of night
And loosed the dreaming
Heart from its slaying
At the gates of dawn.
Finding herself all undone,
She begins to spit the spirit
Horses of the soul
Into cascades built
Of a fear that
Would never lessen,
Or the wind itself
Unwind, against the beating
Of the heart to build
A language spoken by
Old stones and cast
Upon the plains. Histories
Naked as a lesson
From some other
Bitter bible, hammered
Like a horseshoe from
An ancient iron
And nailed against
The heat of some
Great horse meant
To carry us to war
And then away from war,
Our backs bloody
With the lash that
Drives us to an understanding
Mute to both a victory
Or defeat, to spread our
Sorry reasons for life
Upon this vale of tears.
The moment of our lives,
A dull bell that
Only clatters its
Ringing neither understood
Nor ever quite undone.
A song so full of words
That it remains unsung.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HAMMOCK
“There is no stopping this one,”
Her father said.
He sat on the hammock
For hours at a time
Gently rocking her,
Talking about a chicken
That was bigger than
The world.
___________________
—Medusa
