Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
Copyright © 2015 by Joy Ladin. Used with permission of the author.
Outside on Fremont Ave, black
snow and no such thing as a
white wig or a lovestruck violet
who sings his heart out. My lungs
ached, huge with breath and the harsh
sweetness of strange words. Veilchen,
Mädchen—my brother spoke them
to show how my tongue was a gate
that could open secrets. He pressed
keys partway, to draw softest sounds
from the upright, and what he loved
I loved. That was my whole faith then.
Copyright © 2015 by Joan Larkin. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 16, 2015, by the Academy of American Poets.
"Sit in my hand." I'm ten. I can't see him, but I hear him breathing in the dark. It's after dinner playtime. We're outside, hidden by trees and shrubbery. He calls it hide-and-seek, but only my little sister seeks us as we hide and she can't find us, as grandfather picks me up and rubs his hands between my legs. I only feel a vague stirring at the edge of my consciousness. I don't know what it is, but I like it. It gives me pleasure that I can't identify. It's not like eating candy, but it's just as bad, because I had to lie to grandmother when she asked, "What do you do out there?" "Where?" I answered. Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek." She looked hard at me, then she said, "That was the last time. I'm stopping that game." So it ended and I forgot. Ten years passed, thirtyfive, when I began to reconstruct the past. When I asked myself why I was attracted to men who disgusted me I traveled back through time to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life I thought was gone, but it had only sunk from view into the quicksand of my mind. It was pulling me down and there I found grandfather waiting, his hand outstretched to lift me up, naked and wet where he rubbed me. "I'll do anything for you," he whispered, "but let you go." And I cried, "Yes," then "No." "I don't understand how you can do this to me. I'm only ten years old," and he said, "That's old enough to know."
From Dread by Ai. Copyright © 2003 by Ai. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company. All rights reserved.
It’s true there were times when it was too much
and I slipped off in the first light or its last hour
and drove up through the crooked way of the valley
and swam out to those ruins on an island.
Blackbirds were the only music in the spruces,
and the stars, as they faded out, offered themselves to me
like glasses of water ringing by the empty linens of the dead.
When Delilah watched the dark hair of her lover
tumble, she did not shatter. When Abraham
relented, he did not relent.
Still, I would tell you of the humbling and the waking.
I would tell you of the wild hours of surrender,
when the river stripped the cove’s stones
from the margin and the blackbirds built
their strict songs in the high
pines, when the great nests swayed the lattice
of the branches, the moon’s brute music
touching them with fire.
And you, there, stranger in the sway
of it, what would you have done
there, in the ruins, when they rose
from you, when the burning wings
ascended, when the old ghosts
shook the music from your branches and the great lie
of your one sweet life was lifted?
Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Fasano. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 29, 2015, by the Academy of American Poets.
What if everything were revealed: where I was last night. You, etc. The rain is coming down like salad. My sister's hair reminds me of my sister so much I can't stop looking. Who am I to have arms? On the plane one short dream: a baby so small it wasn't even human, just a bouquet of light with wise cellular eyes. If losing me is the worst thing to happen, your life is still a good life.
Copyright © 2011 by Emily Kendal Frey. Used with permission of the author.