On the Level

I.
The house is withdrawing, all its insides
destroyed or now burning. Drafted pieces
flick down like feathers, kniving orange streaks
into the night around the yard.

Father stands on the concrete
across the street; he holds his briefcase,
drooping at his side. His feet are cold.
The alarm sounded in the middle
of his dream about Marie. Mother

is fetal over the edge
of the sidewalk, her hands slipping
over the vinyl photo album tucked
between her lap and her breasts, sagging.
She smells nice, of lotion and dishes.
She stares at the house, sparkling, smells

meat on the air; even the food
in the kitchen is burning now.

II.
Here in the middle of the Sewanee field,
shades of the moon fall from the dorms,
the horizon squared off by a Tennessee treeline.
Summer wet is stuck against the grass,
fingers stretching out to kiss the muted trees
in meek challenge, the air sassafras and calm,
falling into this middle ground
where we can see all the stars cupped over us—

placed in this green field where we meet
sharp shadows like soft friends,
the way wind intrudes on everything,
the dirt packed, measuring itself against the midnight—

Is it you, or me, making that noise,
those audacious clatters?

-------------------------------------

Verse in A

'...a guess at anything is righteous,
should there be a call there would be a voice.'
- from Tender Buttons, Gertrude Stein

We are made of language: it ballets our skin,
the hat you wear, the kind noddings of chins
through storefronts, my own frayed corners.
The muscles of your mouth are tuned
to tremors.

That your tongue, amazed, sits more often still,
your fingers learn to paraphrase:
postcards, sonnets, letters in the margin—
you will spend your life
your mouth in your hands.

Attempting the traffic of silence
and the syntax of I in the geography
to move, neglect, shelter—
you didn't expect this panic.
You were not prepared for the hush

to have the daily, final word.
The many hands before yours, crutched
in defense of the angles they lay in.
The circadian alarms which distract
your hands

from the soft of my skin.
But you've known for years what it is
you have to say. Put the tip of your pen
to my lips. I will draft your line breaks
between my bones.