Apophatic Project
How to say she would
run the horse beneath
the low branches of
the Thorny Locust
until she fell off?
How to explain she
planned to build fires
until the most concrete
of bridges fell to embers?
How to say she would
wander across whatever
border until every shape
wore a foreign costume?
How to explain
breaking every tool
she so expertly
wielded, until syllables
stuttered unintelligible
screeds and jokes?
How to say it’s about
burning. About riding
through low branches
until ends become
completions; going
on until she hears
the trees laughing.
Hats & Maps
1. (in the thick)
Once an argument could cut
like a two-edged sword. But
that’s old hat. The headgear
now is helmets. And arguments
cut like shrapnel, every way.
2. (in the city)
I like it that my map
talks to me in a gentle
voice while I drive. Not
like we fallible persons
at all. When I lose
direction, she walks me
back. Recalculates
calm as I swear and
cringe into another
lane to turn around.
3. (in the boonies)
I send nurses now
to find my father
on the farm he so
doesn’t want to leave.
“The GPS,” I warn,
“won’t find it. And
the road signs have
all been shot.” That’s
just the beginning
of an explanation.
4. (in the hat trick)
I strap on my Kevlar,
wishing for a newer
model. I strap on my
sword, knowing it
can never cut enough
ways. When the map
stops speaking; when
every weapon fails;
then, sometimes, the
sharp edges rest,
and the old aches
allow a deep breath.
