Away on the Wind

We biked all day
escaping Portland.

The gurgling river
kept track of us past

Swan Island, Ross Island, Toe Island
the proud silky geese standing guard

with their black faces and prizefighter’s chests
the amusement park lonely

singing itself a tinny song
that blew away on the wind.

We traveled through small
Midwestern towns

bright banners flying
antique stores mumbling the past.

Here is that mainstreet
you walked down once

on a yellow day in your childhood.
And here is the tiny café

I once spent three days in
eating through chocolate éclairs

licking the glossy gold custard
from the cracks in my knuckles.

The towns that kept us safe once
dissolve as the sun sets

and we drop hands, uncertain
what to trust

as the wind from the river
erases the breath from our tongues.

White

Ralph
my first
black
friend.

Milwaukee
I slept
on your floor
machines
turning gears
all night.

Rose
at 7
walked
into the
sun.

Realized
-flash-
I was
glowing:
only
one
in
sight.

Sheer
blink
of terror
shoulders
bundling
to neck.

Gasp
discomfort
not
belonging
then
fast on
its heels:
guilt.


Turn
to your
face
smiling
full of
morning.

Despair
knowing
in this
divided
city
you must
feel this
heaviness

Every
single
god
damned
day.

How to Avoid Change

Stick things in your ears.
Close your eyes and refuse
to open them for anyone, even if they are trying
to show you something beautiful – a watercolor
pigment still wet and earthy,
a bird skimming the silver grass of a field.

Close your mouth.
Change hovers just behind the teeth
ready to leap out.

Hold onto things tightly.
Any large, immobile object will do –
washers or dryers, monkey bars, cars and trucks,
porch railings, large boulders.
Don’t hang onto people.
People are always disappearing
worse than ghosts.
They can’t even be counted on
to haunt you.

Don’t use electricity.
You might see the world for a minute.
This morning the sky was pure gold
with one orange streak. Tonight
it is deep blue with thin pink threads.

Don’t move across the country.
Stay in the same town you grew up in
or pick the town you lived in the longest
and move back there.
You don’t need to be happy,
you will be safe.
You will recognize everything
with a sharp, defeated familiarity.

Imagine you are a potted plant,
a geranium or pansy,
a wreath made of dry twigs.
Imagine you are an immaculate stainless steel surface
the smooth, satisfied face of the refrigerator,
the placid curve of a mixing bowl.

Imagine you are a fresh white envelope, never sent.