{"id":3749,"date":"2014-07-02T16:00:41","date_gmt":"2014-07-02T16:00:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3749"},"modified":"2014-07-04T09:30:03","modified_gmt":"2014-07-04T09:30:03","slug":"two-poems-13","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3749","title":{"rendered":"Two Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Calliopes<\/strong><\/p>\n

I was conscious of being handled. I must have died from love, as in the old ways.
\nThere was a certain amount of praying and lamenting. I didn\u2019t mind, though I preferred
\nThe joking and the drinking. Sooner or later it would all be the same.<\/p>\n

The first touch was the gentlest. It was a friend who found me, sure.
\nAnd saw them take me up onto the gurney, and they were gentle, too.
\nIt wasn\u2019t needed now, I thought, but I felt it, and began to try and remember touching.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s fair to ask how I could have such thoughts in my body, gone as I was.
\nI haven\u2019t any answer, nor any to your next question, either,
\nAbout this moment or the next, or what\u2019s between. So far I\u2019m only somewhere<\/p>\n

Not being someone. I don\u2019t even know why I am writing to you, when it\u2019s been this long
\nSince I wrote or even thought of doing it, or needed to.
\nThen, yet, there are others gone so much longer than I ever thought of being<\/p>\n

So, their quilts folded into the crossword box from Ikea. Nice that you still have that.
\nIt turns out to be a trick, saying things. You begin to talk, and then
\nFor years you do it. You\u2019re stopped before you\u2019re done. No one listens to the end,<\/p>\n

There\u2019s always an interruption or two, and I guess that\u2019s natural enough
\nThough it seems wrong. Who knows where it goes, your thought you didn\u2019t get
\nTo finish? Not here. And if one insists, it\u2019s rude, or erotic, like pointing.<\/p>\n

I wish I knew what I was trying to say here. I realize it\u2019s my last chance
\nTo explain. One is never closer to the source of love than when turning
\nTo look for dogs who are eating grass down the path.<\/p>\n

Everyone remembers a few same things. Calliopes, for example,
\nOr chinaberries, or desuetudes. That is what makes the treacherous wishes
\nCome true for a while, as the lines get longer or seem to, at the stores.<\/p>\n

Now I can finally see how you\u2019ve ignored my instructions and wishes. I forgive you though, I\u2019m in
\nno position not to, having lain so quietly that no one by now is paying
\nAny attention at all. But this room you\u2019ve put me in is hideous.<\/p>\n

This B-3 Hammond is being fingered, for Christ\u2019s sake,
\nIn a really putrid way. And this suit, well, I don\u2019t like this style at all. It isn\u2019t me.
\nI wanted to be burned in my old tux and my ashes mixed<\/p>\n

With the dogs\u2019 in a giant homemade urn. Put us near a fireplace, please,
\nUnder an old bird gun, so the idea of being warmed by wings of fire can remain close by,
\nAnd that smell of wood burned, kiss-sweet and clinging, would evoke<\/p>\n

Some elementary memory I\u2019d prefer not to share because I might lose it,
\nAs I have lost my tongue. Melanie Wilson, perhaps, pausing on a bridge in bright sun,
\nShowing me a pellet of skin and dirt she\u2019d rolled from the heel of her palm.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\nBlack-eyed Flower<\/strong><\/p>\n

If each petal turned out to be exactly like a bird, gone without explanation.
\nIf we noticed a pattern beginning to sway, it\u2019s this stack of dishes
\nred and nearly falling. Then the telephone rings as it does, to save the day.
\nAching to come looking came the aching, a long way down the creek
\nand into the meadow where the grass, tall and yellow,
\ngrew without meaning to be yellow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Calliopes I was conscious of being handled. I must have died from love, as in the old ways. There was a certain amount of praying and lamenting. I didn\u2019t mind, though I preferred The joking and the drinking. Sooner or later it would all be the same. The first touch was the gentlest. It was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":95,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[303,306],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nTwo Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3749\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3749&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Two Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Calliopes I was conscious of being handled. I must have died from love, as in the old ways. There was a certain amount of praying and lamenting. I didn\u2019t mind, though I preferred The joking and the drinking. Sooner or later it would all be the same. The first touch was the gentlest. 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