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2 POEMS Monica Berlin
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BARELY MORNING & THE MEN already scaling that roofline, their voices distinctly like a word. They'll be aloft & keeps rising, which won't be anything hours of more bend & haul, swelter— they're all balance, poised on beams laid beautiful, hardness, their sharp edges & slope & sheathing, every valley, those hips __ A KIND OF STUTTER, THAT OVER & over, that sometime-sound between even the walls of our quiet Like repeating. Like pulse. I thought arson, a word I'd never until not a word & you here, you could help me burn off everything. flowers my mother would snip off tumblers where they'd lean my little boy being pulled from me, my ribs, & how he's still there still, Because I don't know what to call up, be gone, then the skies would cover would turn to a kind of stone— our mouths—& how days,
__ A remarkable phrase: the anatomy of a roof. A remarkable name: Eyjafjallajökull. A dear friend long ago roofed houses, years later practiced the pronounciation of that Icelandic wonder until he got it absolutely right. I was thinking, in part, of him when I wrote each of these. I was thinking about what things are called and how to say their names, and how sometimes we can study a whole new vocabulary and still not know how to say something. |