The following
poems are from The Rim Benders, forthcoming in October 2001 from
Anhinga Press.
Winnowing the True
Imitation
pearls drawn across the teeth
feel smooth. Dyed fur resists when blown.
When out for butter, shun bright yellow.
A knot
that moves on its branch is not a knot.
A word thrown over the shoulder is not a discussion.
A brick is not a personal flotation device.
A father
will cover his sleeping son
but leave his dreams alone.
A jeweler will cut the extra face and risk the gem.
A Master will tell you he plays, a little.
Spell for a Poet Getting On
May your
hipbones never die.
May you hear the ruckus of mountains
in the Kansas of your age, and when
you go deaf, may you go wildly deaf.
May the
neighbors arrive, bringing entire aviaries.
When the last of your hair is gone, may families
lovelier than you can guess colonize
the balds of your head.
May your
thumbstick grow leaves.
May the nipples of your breasts drip wine.
And when, leaning into the grass, you watch
the inky sun vanish into the flat page
of the
sea, may you join your lawn chair,
each of you content
that nothing is wise forever.
For
For the
daffodil’s horn that blazes spring For the hooting taxis
that don't give a damn whose door they crunch For the Levis
of New York City, out at the knees
For the
shadows between hardwoods that hint of zebras For
the zebra's yellow teeth that will bite if she can For the way
her stripey neck can twist itself towards your arm For other
beauties: the peacock and his unpleasant voice
For vivid
violet lightning that won't stay put For the sound
thunder makes after love, the bang that makes you jump
no matter how you steel, no matter how you want the flash
to be enough
For the
jittery innocence under the skins of rivers the clear
way they skip over rocks as though the rocks' indigestibility
were of no importance For the stones women swallow
when they marry For the operation that removes the stones
so they can be kept as specimens or set in rings
For the
way the birds do not realize they are flying For
the baby who hums himself awake For the cat in her
orange disregard For the moment just before we understand
what the promised little talk is all about
Matanzas
Matanzas
Beach, near St. Augustine, was named to commemorate Pedro Menendez’1565
slaughter of Hugonaut settlers there.. Menendez justified the murders
by saying it was not Frenchmen he had killed, but heretics.
A rod
jammed into the sand
the thin line from its tip to the sea
relaxed
and him
down the beach
picking up broken angels' wings
with a boy's faith
in what
swims in deep water
when suddenly, raptly, his rod bends
and he pounds towards it,
pounds
heart-footed
towards what is silver and struggles
in every boy and
flushed,
he reels it in.
What next, he never thought. It leaps
and gasps in his hands.
Django in Hang-Zhou
He is
waiguo ren: foreigner. When he walks to
the market his dark head sees over theirs as if
he were a child, held on his father’s shoulders.
They point at him and stare.
He
is twenty-one,
and empty as a thousand-years old wine jug.
He is also in love, not with what is foreign
in Hang-Zhou, but with what is most himself--
the cold and ancient lake, the blue mountains,
and in spring with the puffs of dust that followed
the galloping carts of emperors. I think he was
among the watchers that lined the streets when
these trees were small.
I
asked him once,
Why is it that Mandarin’s so easy for you?
Because I’m a musician, he said, which was
like the doll, that still has many dolls inside.
How I Learned
For
D’Arcy
For years
I made you purple presents.
Mauve blouses, lavender skirts,
fuschia scarves that flowed.
For each occasion, another shade
of bruise, sweet as the fumes of
Daddy's disappearing Buick, achy as
the strokes of tight-lipped Mommy,
brushing my hair. I thought you'd
wear them. I thought they'd become
you, being blonde. But you put them,
all my purple gifts, in one deep drawer.
And now, grown, you take them out.
At first it pains, how new they are.
Then you smile. Let's give these
away, you say. And the spring sun
back-lights your hair. You look
like some kind of angel, standing
there in your bedroom, the shine
of what to keep, and what to let go
falling through both our hands.
Under
Under
a spreading sky, blue-pink as a wild egg,
a woman makes a bouquet of her life:
baby's breath, alyssum, sweet lobelia,
rosebuds of palest gold
And
she does this
not for brides-sake but because the season
in the garden will spindle soon.
And
also
because she wants this picture: herself,
hair dark as night before star-rise,
herself, proud in dirt-streaked jeans,
herself, flowers spilling from her arms.
Copyright © 2001 Lola Haskins
