Poetry |

“Exodus,” “Rubies,” “We Were Supposed to Share” & “Slowness”

Exodus

 

If I sense revolving     a moving

away     I’ll think of sourwood leaves

swaying before the drop.

Before the rake through streaked

grass    before I yank

what has already left     air in my palm.

A palm where nothing lives.

You have given me pulse

reason to remain.

But I’m now tattered     sliced

assaulted.

The gulls cry as if they miss

water yet it’s near.

What if you’re the water I miss?

 

 

*     *     *    *     *

 

 

Rubies

after Kawon Walker

 

What was it like before the floor?

Before that glacial end     before

 

they found you without

life     were they the takers?

 

They followed a trail of rubies.

From somewhere on you

 

they spilled.  Young     dead     black

on the jail floor.  You were

 

alone.  Who sees you

alone?  Who gathers for you?

 

Crystals in your hands.  We discuss

you     without     in this room

 

of tealight candles     warm

plates on the table.  Someone

 

is loud here.   The same one

always loud     always

 

heard     that demand over     over.

But you     soundless.

 

So many     soundless.

No one sings for you.

 

 

*     *     *    *     *

 

 

We Were Supposed to Share

 

 

I didn’t indicate partition.  That one takes     hides

a portion of the other’s life. But that all is shared.

How we walk here     see here.

 

Everything open to us.

Discussed over grilled

vegetables     something that swam.

 

We once swam in a sea

that wrangled me here.

Here where laws are meant to dismember.

 

Afraid of it.

Afraid of them.

I told you then     there in the salt.

 

You turn away from me.

Claim your unshared life.

Call it plans without description

 

as a herd of Arabians gallop off a crag.

The sod of their hooves in chucks

as they snap over shale     turn the sea criminal.

 

I retaliate with the same word

as strawberries ripen in fields.

With stained hands    I give these to you.

 

 

*     *     *    *     *

 

 

Slowness

 

Your pace slows near the jasmine.

Some of the white blossoms scatter

about the cobbled street like paper     political

slogans crushed.  Yesterday

we ran from killers who turned

their guns on themselves.

I’m thinking of the man I could

have become     the killer of me

in cells     red maple boughs watching.

Are you thinking of this?  Is this

the source of your sudden

slowness near that white-wooden

house     the white blossoms

still on the vine?

Contributor
Myronn Hardy

Myronn Hardy is the author of, most recently, Aurora Americana published by Princeton University Press. His poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere.  He lives in Maine.

Posted in Poetry

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.