The American Poetry Review September/October 2021

The Lonely Humans A type of hickory, it grows by water.So are we fools to drive to the riverthe day after our most savage stormshave finally stopped to seea tree we’ve never seen before?To hike in cold mud through a leafless forest,to behold clearings now clutteredby whatever fell last night—mostly oaks,no hickory—to attend the mad performanceof a newly roaring current.I do not want to call it singing,the wounded poet’s head howlingdownriver. Remember we scornedhis broken heart, broken rashlyby himself, some say, for wanting lovetoo soon. You say I am unfair, that too muchrain is what makes the river rush (there is no “we”in what you say, dear): we hear itas mythology. We hear it outsideourselves, a surfeit of music quickeningwind against winter trees, branch-tapsI mistake for premonitions. Of what? That the…

Something about a tree in shallow sleepListening for what it wants to remember: The note of a seed, its neck sliding throughDirt and its confusion—nothing cleansed Of struggle. The weight lost after death,A confrontation of death. John Coltrane Even in death is a perfect instrumentOf water and working the day past its zero— The fires in the trees, a legless rabbitDrifting across the sky—dream of a mule Covered in crows opened in front of a muleCovered in crows, their wings beating against him Like skin. An autumned tree in autumnWatching fire autumn the other trees. It doesn’t have to make sense now; it canMake sense later on. A mule covered in crows— Sometimes, you got to stick a little grassIn your mouth to sound like God. Allow crows. Something about John Coltrane Something about the bells in a faun’s hair,A…

When Prince Was Filipino It was 1983 I was 14 years old the nightCharmaine Makaiyak led me in secretto the basement kitchen of St. Matt’s cafeteriaShe put her lips on my left earlobeand soft-sang two choruses of Prince’s “Do Me”so I might finally learn how to slow dance rightWas it winter?—because the prettiest sophomoreat the Annual Filipino Family Galatook my hand and an icy waveclimbed up my banks a blizzard windshook both my alleys and all my leavesfell off my trees What’s a bony floppy-haired boy to dobut keep his eyes wide open acknowledgethe tabernacles of silence built above himand then open his armsto enter the thick religious mistof grape hair spray that surrounds the girlwho is about to kiss him? Every once in a while it is goodfor us to remember there…

The Ballet The dancersIn a terribly brightLight blue gauzeRetained the mystery Skating on a lakeBlue and iceAn illusionary timeWhere poetry feels inevitable The terrific clownWho lies insideEvery blue dressDoes he see me Always a starAlways a rootHorrible aurasAt the door But no matter where we startIt all ends in an oceanHard and fastOn the approaching blue dawn Until thenA deep low whisperWhat is language anywayAn ending that never happens Love is like a butterfly When you’re aroundIt’s like the smallest lilacsAre in bloom forever Between usI feel the tiniest tender flowersThe smallest little lilacs Between us like many glowing eggsThat we gently volleyAnd roll back and forth between us as a song Despite the world and all its crueltyWe dare not break themWe use every ounce to give them care Despite it allMy mad heartSmall and insidious Your heart and all its madnessAn…

All that matters is feeding the lake.I don’t matter. The lake matters.You must keep feeding the lake. —Jean Rhys There’s a goddess forme attended by two tall black dogsnamed Rage & Grief. You’re humiliated,just like this, wheneverthe familiar arrives. You believe nothingyou have ever knowncould save you now. Stark tallblack dogs attend the Goddess, with hertall head toward the sea. There’s a goddess for me,or anyone. That’s the pattern, but sometimes, you sayI feel like food for a lake I can’t seeor buy property on. I bend over my workwhile the Goddess hovers writhing in famous stillness,like a paused fly, between the two magnetsinside of her dogs. I serve her.My reasons though my ownremain unknown to me. Something is mineonce I cannot touch it. I pace the strandwith my hands folded, passing her columns,passing her obelisks, her two tall dogs.You wanted a place by the lake. I wanted to sing…

When I write I like to listen to the same song over and over again, although need to listen feels a more accurate phrase. This repeated listening returns me to a place where I can see the next thing I want to say, although of course I don’t mean see with my eyes, just like I don’t mean returns me to a place exactly, e although I wish I did. Let me try this again. When I sat down to write about one of those songs, it returned me to the place where I first heard it, the place it came from and even the place where I’m listening to it now. These places have nothing in common except inside of me, which is the place a story begins, as well…