Brother, we go back
Our yard lays long as a dog run. Hearing thunder, we
drag kitchen chairs close to the porch edge and work
up a weed cloud to wait inside. The leaves cover
wilting grass with crisps of color. A hook breaks
on the radio like resurrection and we croon close,
scaring off the Sunday swelling up around our city.
Tuesday. You slunk in around 3, drunk, fumbling, city
smelling up your wool. 10:28am and we
were watching the North Tower close
in on itself. On break from The Big Green, not yet working
at Goldman. Before the Wall Street Bull broke
you, we sat hand-in-hand, undercover,
loving each other. The covers
were weighty as steel. Too soon you were back in the city
courting thin women who hung on you like tinsel, breaking
bathroom doors with the butt of your hand. We
phoned: Didn't you know...? And I didn't. Always the work,
the show-time face. Never near enough to be close,
Dave. Once Day Day doing The Loco-Motion, all closed
fists and flung limbs to Grand Funk's swing. No Kylie cover
for this brother shimmying across the parquet, workin
it out in the worst way. Me, giggling away the city
sounds in my Turtles hoodie, full of we.
Outside, sirens sang. Motors whirred, unbroken.
Break
of night. Echoes of close-
faced laughter. We
take cover
in our old city,
drinking off the work
of living through death. Chill, I'm working
on it, you say, knuckles breaking
your cigarette in two, the city
missing its teeth. I can't stand you shaking so close
to me. I wish you'd draw back the curtains. There's no cover
for what you cannot change. What we
uncover, too close
to call it like it is. I know, I say. The city works
while we break.
drag kitchen chairs close to the porch edge and work
up a weed cloud to wait inside. The leaves cover
wilting grass with crisps of color. A hook breaks
on the radio like resurrection and we croon close,
scaring off the Sunday swelling up around our city.
Tuesday. You slunk in around 3, drunk, fumbling, city
smelling up your wool. 10:28am and we
were watching the North Tower close
in on itself. On break from The Big Green, not yet working
at Goldman. Before the Wall Street Bull broke
you, we sat hand-in-hand, undercover,
loving each other. The covers
were weighty as steel. Too soon you were back in the city
courting thin women who hung on you like tinsel, breaking
bathroom doors with the butt of your hand. We
phoned: Didn't you know...? And I didn't. Always the work,
the show-time face. Never near enough to be close,
Dave. Once Day Day doing The Loco-Motion, all closed
fists and flung limbs to Grand Funk's swing. No Kylie cover
for this brother shimmying across the parquet, workin
it out in the worst way. Me, giggling away the city
sounds in my Turtles hoodie, full of we.
Outside, sirens sang. Motors whirred, unbroken.
Break
of night. Echoes of close-
faced laughter. We
take cover
in our old city,
drinking off the work
of living through death. Chill, I'm working
on it, you say, knuckles breaking
your cigarette in two, the city
missing its teeth. I can't stand you shaking so close
to me. I wish you'd draw back the curtains. There's no cover
for what you cannot change. What we
uncover, too close
to call it like it is. I know, I say. The city works
while we break.
a joy as always, kate. i love how the words dance harder at the end. nice.
ReplyDeleteso what inspired the sestina kick?
I'm in a poetry workshop at Stahnfahd that's focused on verse forms. I joined the class precisely because I've been so resistant to submitting myself to this kind of bondage in the pat.
ReplyDeleteI'm happy to say there is hope for me, the ghazal, and the sestina at last! Still fighting with the sonnet, though. He's like the skeezy great-uncle of pop, though I do love a good volta.
PAST, that is. But "pat" is pretty cool.
ReplyDeletepat is pretty cool.
ReplyDeletebeing in a cw program, i can say that I'm sick to death of sestinas and sonnets, but that's just from exposure. ghazals are still fresh for me though.