Tuesday, November 24, 2020

Picking San Giovanni

Vetralla, Lazio


Donkeys stir in the last mist.

A glass jar each, 

Federico and I hike through hazelnuts

to where the yellow flowers 

flock amidst Etruscan tombs.

Singing soft Frank Ocean

as a grace, I wind 

my wrists through grass.

Blooms smear pollen

where my fingers fold.

Federico's hand unfurls

on my back to brace me 

when I climb, too high perhaps, 

to pick the final few.

 

Saturday, November 21, 2020

Grace in a Thunderstorm

After Eirin Moure

Finally! a thunderstorm this afternoon

The sky careening down to the high far apartment buildings on HaMeshachrerim 

as if to topple them over

As if Iron Dome 

Let a few through

And the rockets fell in a torrent

The thunder of belated sirens screaming as they fell,

The rain rained down from the close sky,

Burst dark on the cracked dirt alleys between our train building

and the next. . .


When lightning shook the air 

And startled the street cats’ searching

Like being awoken in the night by one’s beloved booming WAKE UP, RUN,

Who knows why – perhaps because the sky was close –

I invoked, in words, my friend Grace

As if I could reach her, just like that. . .


And, speaking to Grace,

I felt myself a falser friend

than I’d ever dreamed of

Felt myself coddled lifebound on Yoel HaShofet

Having spent my year

Full of unrelated turmoils,

Having wishes, and doubts about wishes,

Like she once had therapy and lowercase text messages. . .


There are some things that refuse to be felt all at once.

Oh, to be able to tell her about the skies that remain in this world.


Friday, July 17, 2020

AFTER THE SHOW

for Joe & Sufjan


Outside the theater we stared, 

my friend and I. 

My face swept 

blank, the swift freeze of where I’d cried. 

Ears rung, as though through 

a snow globe or a diving bell

he told me he had worried he’d seize

at the screaming lights of the last song.

We’re all gonna die.

And I had thought the exact same,

and told him so. We laughed.

I did not tell him

I thought I would never write, sing, 

touch again. Or never stop. 

Though, knowing him

I was not the only one 

smiling through it.


He told me once that his face always

ached from laughing 

after he saw me.


So did mine. I’m sorry. 

It was always a relief 

to be alone again.