LATE FIRES
by Jonathan Eastman
The first warm week spawns an inner promise to bear
spring through to summer without another parlor fire.
Our coats lumber upstairs to the extra closet like winter
bears made sleepy by the smell of heat. Oven fires
for roasts and pie make an unbearable den
where we sweat in undershirt and slip
into beach dreams--wet swimming suits slipping sudden
cold over our groins--but we still wear furry slippers
under table and desk against a lingering draft that--
in the limbo days of rain and sun to come--will stealthily
penetrate our shaggiest emergency wrap
and belie our early impulse to forget the snow and chill.
spring through to summer without another parlor fire.
Our coats lumber upstairs to the extra closet like winter
bears made sleepy by the smell of heat. Oven fires
for roasts and pie make an unbearable den
where we sweat in undershirt and slip
into beach dreams--wet swimming suits slipping sudden
cold over our groins--but we still wear furry slippers
under table and desk against a lingering draft that--
in the limbo days of rain and sun to come--will stealthily
penetrate our shaggiest emergency wrap
and belie our early impulse to forget the snow and chill.
Memory of a Skeleton
by Jonathan Eastman
Chicago--The skeletons
of a man and a woman,
wearing winter clothing,
were found in a luxury car
parked on the south side.
In the moment your hair
came through exhaust I was
red like the whole garage,
tail light red that locks
a stare--say the first time I stood
changing a tire on the freeway
I held my finger up to see
that red come through--then
your face drifted down angelic.
This was no dream:
my fur coat warm as blood
and you getting in beside me,
sending that tremor through
my legs, so good it made me open
for more air. You asked
what's wrong but there was nothing;
I had only been waiting too long.
You aked again
slower, your lips sanguine,
eyes gone liquid. Just then
it must have been the best.
Oh your skin fell away like petals
in the long winter. I missed the music of
the car and your careless voice.
When they finally came, letting in
the white blast of light,
they were years late, they
found us laughing forever,
our heads thrown back
against the cushioned seat.
Published in WHERE WE ARE: The Montana Poets Anthology SmokeRoot Press, 1978.
The Stunning
by Jonathan Eastman
Jacob Mugisha was forced to batter
to death more than 20 of his fellow
prisoners in Idi Amin's camp at Naguru.
Cell window at dusk. Tire tracks
sit up like ribs in the red
dust of Kampala-Jinja road.
In the center of a field, shadows
gut a stand of trees like souls
gone out early to greet the night.
Mugisha, again tonight you
are the executioner, or dead. No.
No one can know what it is, this choice.
All men look up at the moon. I see it
in each dark eye: each man
curls up under me, carrying out
all the good he's ever done.
The worst was Musoke, only 17;
I huddled with him in this cell
not knowing that night the chill
of his death would enter my hands,
the sound of his death, the long echoes
from sky, would gather in my bones forever.
Again tonight, in another breath
the door will fall back hitting stone,
hitting blood in the back of my head.
Corporal Nyanzi will usher me out
to the circle of guns and moon. I
will take up that thick polished bar,
heavy as the body of a son, and
in the first blow be brutally
merciful, bring reeling stars down
on the quivering neck and batter
the last remnants of fear into the dust.
Published in WHERE WE ARE: The Montana Poets Anthology SmokeRoot Press, 1978.
Jacob Mugisha was forced to batter
to death more than 20 of his fellow
prisoners in Idi Amin's camp at Naguru.
Cell window at dusk. Tire tracks
sit up like ribs in the red
dust of Kampala-Jinja road.
In the center of a field, shadows
gut a stand of trees like souls
gone out early to greet the night.
Mugisha, again tonight you
are the executioner, or dead. No.
No one can know what it is, this choice.
All men look up at the moon. I see it
in each dark eye: each man
curls up under me, carrying out
all the good he's ever done.
The worst was Musoke, only 17;
I huddled with him in this cell
not knowing that night the chill
of his death would enter my hands,
the sound of his death, the long echoes
from sky, would gather in my bones forever.
Again tonight, in another breath
the door will fall back hitting stone,
hitting blood in the back of my head.
Corporal Nyanzi will usher me out
to the circle of guns and moon. I
will take up that thick polished bar,
heavy as the body of a son, and
in the first blow be brutally
merciful, bring reeling stars down
on the quivering neck and batter
the last remnants of fear into the dust.
Published in WHERE WE ARE: The Montana Poets Anthology SmokeRoot Press, 1978.
For a Crowd in Titusville, Florida by Jonathan Eastman
It was something in the air,
the water broken, shot up
with blood. It was something watching
from inside you, a dark face
you hadn't noticed was your own.
When he pushed against you, broke
through to the front, you
ignored him--just a boy you thought,
playing. And you kept watching
the gemmed back of the crocodile.
There was that wish not to let go
of watching, being still.
It could've been like
that moment of sun through a windshield,
space you hate and long to enter.
The boy was there, between sight
and longing, feet kicking for a hold.
You took in everything, shock
coming into hips, shoulders,
though still it was not
only seeing. Some turned away.
Some wanted a breeze off the purple swamp
to cradle against the sudden spell.
It came late with thunder
shaking up from the ground.
Two baseball players
collided in Cincinnati--millions
settled back. That night
in full moon the crocodile circled you
and you, in all your faces, refused
to look anymore, waited
for that something to end, knowing
it would not: the crickets, the heat,
a girl's cry breaking up like dirt
sifting down to the pool.
Published in The Montana Review, 1979.
Sickness in the Afternoon
by Jonathan Eastman
No warning clap of your slippers on hardwood
or dull scrape of piano
bench legs downstairs,
only the first chord
stretching out into all the rooms
and hunger
for your hand against my face,
for your cool arms
lifting me up for soup.
In my last dream we played
over the ivory keys of our bodies,
my fever piqued by your touch,
drowned in the last soution.
When your hands lift from the keyboard
I call for you,
wife, melody
of furtive women
I have hungered for--nurse
smelling of jasmine and sweat
who stung me from behind
with what I needed
to descend
a scale of pain,
neighbor girl
whirling on the walk
until your skirt opened
and lifted around the green
surge of your thighs,
imagined mistress
pulling the cord of your gown
loose in the dark
corner of this room,
you bending down into dream,
lifting me
like a photograph through solution
to stretch, scrape
your breasts with my numb face
and take in
the first spoon of soup too soon, ignoring
your warning wait for it to cool
and clap of slipper against hardwood.
Published in Gathering, Fall 1986.
No warning clap of your slippers on hardwood
or dull scrape of piano
bench legs downstairs,
only the first chord
stretching out into all the rooms
and hunger
for your hand against my face,
for your cool arms
lifting me up for soup.
In my last dream we played
over the ivory keys of our bodies,
my fever piqued by your touch,
drowned in the last soution.
When your hands lift from the keyboard
I call for you,
wife, melody
of furtive women
I have hungered for--nurse
smelling of jasmine and sweat
who stung me from behind
with what I needed
to descend
a scale of pain,
neighbor girl
whirling on the walk
until your skirt opened
and lifted around the green
surge of your thighs,
imagined mistress
pulling the cord of your gown
loose in the dark
corner of this room,
you bending down into dream,
lifting me
like a photograph through solution
to stretch, scrape
your breasts with my numb face
and take in
the first spoon of soup too soon, ignoring
your warning wait for it to cool
and clap of slipper against hardwood.
Published in Gathering, Fall 1986.
At Grocery Stores There Are Boys by Jonathan Eastman
Inside dust settles
I look for thin layers on the shelves
I always want to tell them I used to work here
stack cans and carry bags
It is the cart in front of me like a wheel chair
the way I look with the others
sheep in long stalls
If they drop something
my eyes agree it was not their fault
In the produce aisle I don't inspect
good vegetables easy to pick out
Up front I am stern-faced
If they sack the frozen with the rest
I say nothing and walk out
turning down their last offers
In WHO'S WHO In Poetry In American Colleges and Universities 1975
I look for thin layers on the shelves
I always want to tell them I used to work here
stack cans and carry bags
It is the cart in front of me like a wheel chair
the way I look with the others
sheep in long stalls
If they drop something
my eyes agree it was not their fault
In the produce aisle I don't inspect
good vegetables easy to pick out
Up front I am stern-faced
If they sack the frozen with the rest
I say nothing and walk out
turning down their last offers
In WHO'S WHO In Poetry In American Colleges and Universities 1975
Waking into the Night
W h i t e a i r b e a m s
f o r m a s h a d o w b r e a k i n g i n t h e c l o u d s,
l i k e f i n g e r s o p e n i n g u n d e r d a r k w a t e r.
W a k e n e d t r e e s s t a n d c l o s e r a g a i n s t t h e l i g h t.
M y l e g s w a d e i n t o t h i s c o l d n i g h t,
b o n e s c r a c k i n g l i k e w o o d.
I t h i n k o f f a c e s, l i g h t f i l t e r i n g
t h r o u g h s k i n a n d f a l l i n g o n a t h o u s a n d s t r e a m s,
o f f e a t u r e s s l o w l y c h a n g i n g.
S t a r t l e d m e n h e a r t h e i r w i v e s c r y i n g a t a w i n d o w.
I n a f i e l d t h e m o o n i s h u n t i n g
f o r s m a l l a n i m a l s.
Published in The Chariton Review, Vol. 2, No. 2, Fall 1976.
NEEDLE
by Jonathan Eastman
I look down my arms
stiff beams
support my head
bent on anything
but the crevice between bones
angular in my knee
My leg hangs
a plumb line of sinew
from the swollen hinge
I burn before
the clean white hands of a doctor
appear with a needle
The long hollow tongue
taps my joint
my stomach rolls
while yellow fluid
sucked from wells deep in the cartilage
rises in the vial
The hands sweat
he leaves the needle
alone in the hard tissure
empties the liquid
like bile
in a white bed pan
The second vial fills
airless
steady
His words finally come to reassure
but they are like barks
from dogs on a wet day
a vein thudding in my temple
I lean forward
clench the metal table and swing out
I could be a boy jumping down
my cold feet
bumping the pavement
Published in The Rectangle, Vol. 51, No. 1, Spring 1976.
I look down my arms
stiff beams
support my head
bent on anything
but the crevice between bones
angular in my knee
My leg hangs
a plumb line of sinew
from the swollen hinge
I burn before
the clean white hands of a doctor
appear with a needle
The long hollow tongue
taps my joint
my stomach rolls
while yellow fluid
sucked from wells deep in the cartilage
rises in the vial
The hands sweat
he leaves the needle
alone in the hard tissure
empties the liquid
like bile
in a white bed pan
The second vial fills
airless
steady
His words finally come to reassure
but they are like barks
from dogs on a wet day
a vein thudding in my temple
I lean forward
clench the metal table and swing out
I could be a boy jumping down
my cold feet
bumping the pavement
Published in The Rectangle, Vol. 51, No. 1, Spring 1976.
Driving Home Drunk by Jonathan Eastman
Sparks wink around
the chained wheels of a truck
far out in front of me
like gathering fireflies
or a string of lady fingers
exploding on cement.
The perfect driver,
I hunch with nerves
warm from amber liquor
in the cold chest of my car.
No moon behind trees
I know are there
strangely bent beside this road.
Even with brights,
this night hides corners
sharp as tin can tops.
They pull my numb head
out into the woods,
pound it against gnarled bark.
I dodge a faceless coon
freshly gored on the blacktop.
Others will not miss him this easy,
sap his blood in spurts,
flatten him into a hard fur plate
children could flip in the wind.
I could let go and drift
over the dark shoulder.
In town where doctors on call
play bridge, the telephone would remind one
he must leave in the middle of a hand
grim and apologetic.
Published in The Rectangle, Vol. 51, No. 1, Spring 1976.
Finding a Pin-up girl
by Jonathan Eastman
Whiskey bottles light up first, dull
sparks through soot, then your breasts,
half-buried under coal. I never expected
to find you here of all places--
torn background matted to the dark floor
so well I thought I'd found a real woman,
small enough to keep in a mason jar.
The old man must have pinned you
above his workbench, assembled
miniature trains and coveted you
in lantern light. Back then they added
words to heighten sense;
yours read "Bloom of Youth"
and you are, curving back on velour,
one leg raised slightly and crossed.
Of course I want to kiss, the way
he did, that part of you hidden, pink
and wet. I want to ease into your glance
and feel my blood drive shrill
as the peal of a tiny whistle.
Whatever it was that made him
hole up and drink hard
breathes on my shoulder--
another woman, sore bones, age.
I brush years off your blushing waist,
decide to take you out of here.
This is no place for a girl like you--
still young, an offering still burning
Published in Scatchgravel Hills, Spring 1979. in your cool smile.
sparks through soot, then your breasts,
half-buried under coal. I never expected
to find you here of all places--
torn background matted to the dark floor
so well I thought I'd found a real woman,
small enough to keep in a mason jar.
The old man must have pinned you
above his workbench, assembled
miniature trains and coveted you
in lantern light. Back then they added
words to heighten sense;
yours read "Bloom of Youth"
and you are, curving back on velour,
one leg raised slightly and crossed.
Of course I want to kiss, the way
he did, that part of you hidden, pink
and wet. I want to ease into your glance
and feel my blood drive shrill
as the peal of a tiny whistle.
Whatever it was that made him
hole up and drink hard
breathes on my shoulder--
another woman, sore bones, age.
I brush years off your blushing waist,
decide to take you out of here.
This is no place for a girl like you--
still young, an offering still burning
Published in Scatchgravel Hills, Spring 1979. in your cool smile.
The Landscape Near a Resthome
by Jonathan Eastman
The long afternoon wanes.
The color-bruised sky,
loose in its frame,
shifts across farm fields.
Again today Grandmother rests,
her thin lids close at last.
She knows how long there is
to breathe the evening air.
Grandfather gambles in her dream,
whiskey-brown hands pushing everything across.
If only she could have seen
how different today has been--
black trees holding their limbs
in phosphorescent green,
blood tulips limp, deepening
in shadows stretched across lawns.
She speaks and her breath drifts in the warm air.
A gold eye appears in a cloud.
Waking, she sees its rays enter her room,
like showers beginning over coal-black fields.
Published in Cutbank, Fall/Winter 1977.
The long afternoon wanes.
The color-bruised sky,
loose in its frame,
shifts across farm fields.
Again today Grandmother rests,
her thin lids close at last.
She knows how long there is
to breathe the evening air.
Grandfather gambles in her dream,
whiskey-brown hands pushing everything across.
If only she could have seen
how different today has been--
black trees holding their limbs
in phosphorescent green,
blood tulips limp, deepening
in shadows stretched across lawns.
She speaks and her breath drifts in the warm air.
A gold eye appears in a cloud.
Waking, she sees its rays enter her room,
like showers beginning over coal-black fields.
Published in Cutbank, Fall/Winter 1977.
Matacao Above Sao Bartolomeu
by Jonathan Eastman
Is the old man
tired of his rest?
Will he fall
and crush us in our sleep
or will he come down
at day like a giant heart
broken loose from the heavens?
I ask only now that they tell us
he is shifting, not to trust him:
the rains have washed away his beard.
The truth is
his shadow on our rooftops
delivers calm in the miserable heat.
His massive silence
above the din of the automobiles
is pleasant in our ears. When
the loud strangers from Meriti
call to us for our hair--
our black braids for Americano
wigs--we laugh and point up.
We say hair come dear here
subordinados--the sky
can fall any minute.
They say we must leave soon,
these scientists, and what
do they know. Can they read
his stone face? Can they guarantee
we will leave the world better off
for dying in some other favela?
We get up each morning more afraid
of new prices we may not be able to pay,
of the growing sound of play rising
from the street, of the one siren
that may be coming for our own.
Note: Heavy rain dislodged a
10,000-ton boulder, forcing the
evacuation of 1,500 residents from
a shanty-town in Rio de Janeiro.
Published in Windfall, Vol. 4, No. 1, Winter 1979.
tired of his rest?
Will he fall
and crush us in our sleep
or will he come down
at day like a giant heart
broken loose from the heavens?
I ask only now that they tell us
he is shifting, not to trust him:
the rains have washed away his beard.
The truth is
his shadow on our rooftops
delivers calm in the miserable heat.
His massive silence
above the din of the automobiles
is pleasant in our ears. When
the loud strangers from Meriti
call to us for our hair--
our black braids for Americano
wigs--we laugh and point up.
We say hair come dear here
subordinados--the sky
can fall any minute.
They say we must leave soon,
these scientists, and what
do they know. Can they read
his stone face? Can they guarantee
we will leave the world better off
for dying in some other favela?
We get up each morning more afraid
of new prices we may not be able to pay,
of the growing sound of play rising
from the street, of the one siren
that may be coming for our own.
Note: Heavy rain dislodged a
10,000-ton boulder, forcing the
evacuation of 1,500 residents from
a shanty-town in Rio de Janeiro.
Published in Windfall, Vol. 4, No. 1, Winter 1979.
An Old Man Scavenging in the Park
by Jonathan Eastman
He can remember nothing before the moon
exploding in the river--the road
scattered with limbs, hands closing
like bloated white flowers, feet
curling. Each thing humming
into its own silence.
He wanted to run but he glided
over the wavering field, over
the taut nipples of the mines,
over those men who looked up as if
his face were a small grey cloud,
his arms pale searchlights,
fragments of dead moon.
In his dream the thunder is slow,
shaking up from the ground.
The men take cover farther and farther
into their bodies. Tiny window lights
collapse in their eyes.
This afternoon in the park
the windows shine from the bright
black glasses of sunbathers.
There are women beside the silent men.
With his second-hand detector
he searches for metal around their bodies.
The blades of grass remind him
of delicate cities seen from far above.
When a blast of light pricks the dark turf,
he stoops to gather it in, naming
those of the dead who are dying again.
Published in Southern Poetry Review, Fall 1979.
He can remember nothing before the moon
exploding in the river--the road
scattered with limbs, hands closing
like bloated white flowers, feet
curling. Each thing humming
into its own silence.
He wanted to run but he glided
over the wavering field, over
the taut nipples of the mines,
over those men who looked up as if
his face were a small grey cloud,
his arms pale searchlights,
fragments of dead moon.
In his dream the thunder is slow,
shaking up from the ground.
The men take cover farther and farther
into their bodies. Tiny window lights
collapse in their eyes.
This afternoon in the park
the windows shine from the bright
black glasses of sunbathers.
There are women beside the silent men.
With his second-hand detector
he searches for metal around their bodies.
The blades of grass remind him
of delicate cities seen from far above.
When a blast of light pricks the dark turf,
he stoops to gather it in, naming
those of the dead who are dying again.
Published in Southern Poetry Review, Fall 1979.
The Boy
by Jonathan Eastman
In school he couldn't write.
He drew elaborate suns and stars in margins.
And there were the large symmetrical
breasts of beautiful women
to think about, some of them shaded
like bullets. He drew bullets
and breasts and thought of
a braided whip he found coiled
on a nail in his basement.
Each crack set off a purple sun
in the dark, a ghost of sun he thought,
that loomed behind his eyes.
He drew stars and whips and thought
of Tarzan, the part where smugglers
tried to burn his eyes out
for ivory tusks, and him waking
at the last second--stuck
so long to the jungle floor
it made a landscape of his skin.
He drew suns and tusks
and thought of the lawn mower
that died in a cloud of blue smoke--
pushed too hard, too fast
through the wet grass.
That day he left it
for good. Outside his house
dried frogs hung,
baked black in a willow.
He made friends that way,
taking kids home to show them
frogs in a tree. He drew suns,
frogs and stars, then quit
going to school one day,
the day he nearly strangled
a boy who tied his shoelaces together
while he slept through recess. Older,
he still cracks his whip in the dark,
hangs frogs in the willow
and looks as if he'd get a strangle
hold so quick neighbors steer
clear as alley dogs. He doesn't draw
dogs in margins. He never
sits down to write like he used to
in school. He never learned to.
Down the street there's a grocery
where he talks baseball over the counter.
The owner knows him as Bill, not his real name.
Published in Scatchgravel Hills, Spring 1979.
In school he couldn't write.
He drew elaborate suns and stars in margins.
And there were the large symmetrical
breasts of beautiful women
to think about, some of them shaded
like bullets. He drew bullets
and breasts and thought of
a braided whip he found coiled
on a nail in his basement.
Each crack set off a purple sun
in the dark, a ghost of sun he thought,
that loomed behind his eyes.
He drew stars and whips and thought
of Tarzan, the part where smugglers
tried to burn his eyes out
for ivory tusks, and him waking
at the last second--stuck
so long to the jungle floor
it made a landscape of his skin.
He drew suns and tusks
and thought of the lawn mower
that died in a cloud of blue smoke--
pushed too hard, too fast
through the wet grass.
That day he left it
for good. Outside his house
dried frogs hung,
baked black in a willow.
He made friends that way,
taking kids home to show them
frogs in a tree. He drew suns,
frogs and stars, then quit
going to school one day,
the day he nearly strangled
a boy who tied his shoelaces together
while he slept through recess. Older,
he still cracks his whip in the dark,
hangs frogs in the willow
and looks as if he'd get a strangle
hold so quick neighbors steer
clear as alley dogs. He doesn't draw
dogs in margins. He never
sits down to write like he used to
in school. He never learned to.
Down the street there's a grocery
where he talks baseball over the counter.
The owner knows him as Bill, not his real name.
Published in Scatchgravel Hills, Spring 1979.
Dog Dreaming
by Jonathan Eastman
Over and over the human
voice barks and fades, barks
and splays into the soft daybreak
as she runs, long pull
of stride after stride, front to back
back to fall, and sleep--
a gentle light-year of chase. Far
off, the bird will not
fly off, cannot be caught; grey bush
and its wings blend like
water, its scent and the cool wind
blending as it sings
on and on through the field of sight.
I have only to
speak into her ear--all the heat,
all the blood of her
body burning, the flames of her,
the fine hair flying, all
will return here,
to calm.
voice barks and fades, barks
and splays into the soft daybreak
as she runs, long pull
of stride after stride, front to back
back to fall, and sleep--
a gentle light-year of chase. Far
off, the bird will not
fly off, cannot be caught; grey bush
and its wings blend like
water, its scent and the cool wind
blending as it sings
on and on through the field of sight.
I have only to
speak into her ear--all the heat,
all the blood of her
body burning, the flames of her,
the fine hair flying, all
will return here,
to calm.
London Snapshot
by Jonathan Eastman
Windswept weir in arctic scape
Stiff pelts straddle taut wire
Howling heads of polar bear
Broken checkered snow
Cold kneads for flinching nerves
On the tip of the planet even
shadows shiver
Fear sears the eye of imagination
Jack best keep open to survive.
Windswept weir in arctic scape
Stiff pelts straddle taut wire
Howling heads of polar bear
Broken checkered snow
Cold kneads for flinching nerves
On the tip of the planet even
shadows shiver
Fear sears the eye of imagination
Jack best keep open to survive.
Ex-machina by Jonathan Eastman
An ancient Buick glides up at one,
pouring soft thunder under the maples.
Mrs. Latona’s ex leans bald scalp
into moon to wile away insomnia.
I watch from my high bedroom—neighbor
like a tower guard at some asylum—and think
separation has crazed him or he would escape,
but I remain, cathartic audience to his petty vigil.
At two he gets out to smoke a Cool,
to circle the house and catcall to bait her.
I’ll break this porch swing he yells--where’ll
you sit and sally with those fools who come?
I’ll kick a hole in this dog house—who’ll
you get to fix that? His free arm
dangles without gesture, ape-like and white.
A match he thumbpicks throws a glow on his stubbly
smirk. His honey’s answer comes slowly, the big house
lighting up room by room, upper bedroom to
entrance hall. The police intruded only on his first
performance when his blundering coursed my dream
and his bolted question Goddamn, you blame me for being
wrong? blasted the neighborhood from sleep. She chased him
down Madison in wispy nightie, flashing a butcher knife
like an enraged maenad with a sharpened moonbeam,
and a callous blackbird still up edged her screaming.
But the Burlington Northern drowned them all in its
roar. Now I’m used to them as to the trains;
I’ve come to appreciate their love
of distance, their distrust of uxorial consummation.
I wait to watch his shadow float the front porch step
like a glutted gar washed by murky water.
I strain to hear the bulldog’s growl soften to a whimper
and catch the one gentle whisper he’ll never play to her.
pouring soft thunder under the maples.
Mrs. Latona’s ex leans bald scalp
into moon to wile away insomnia.
I watch from my high bedroom—neighbor
like a tower guard at some asylum—and think
separation has crazed him or he would escape,
but I remain, cathartic audience to his petty vigil.
At two he gets out to smoke a Cool,
to circle the house and catcall to bait her.
I’ll break this porch swing he yells--where’ll
you sit and sally with those fools who come?
I’ll kick a hole in this dog house—who’ll
you get to fix that? His free arm
dangles without gesture, ape-like and white.
A match he thumbpicks throws a glow on his stubbly
smirk. His honey’s answer comes slowly, the big house
lighting up room by room, upper bedroom to
entrance hall. The police intruded only on his first
performance when his blundering coursed my dream
and his bolted question Goddamn, you blame me for being
wrong? blasted the neighborhood from sleep. She chased him
down Madison in wispy nightie, flashing a butcher knife
like an enraged maenad with a sharpened moonbeam,
and a callous blackbird still up edged her screaming.
But the Burlington Northern drowned them all in its
roar. Now I’m used to them as to the trains;
I’ve come to appreciate their love
of distance, their distrust of uxorial consummation.
I wait to watch his shadow float the front porch step
like a glutted gar washed by murky water.
I strain to hear the bulldog’s growl soften to a whimper
and catch the one gentle whisper he’ll never play to her.
They Die Sometimes
by Jonathan Eastman
Of a sudden, eyes
back in flat heads
fall--tails unundulating,
fins finally free.
Of time
there is no suspicion.
What was up still does,
but sideways,
float.
And the plastic diver
points in pink light
at the funny
air
that bursts
all around the dead.
Of their lives
gliding by is all
the survivors imagine.
Of a sudden, eyes
back in flat heads
fall--tails unundulating,
fins finally free.
Of time
there is no suspicion.
What was up still does,
but sideways,
float.
And the plastic diver
points in pink light
at the funny
air
that bursts
all around the dead.
Of their lives
gliding by is all
the survivors imagine.
Renegades by Jonathan Eastman
I step out to hear it gathering
under the eaves--conversation of jawbone
and spittle, of cartilage and tusk--
an omen swarming from the dark sheds,
reeling into squealed argument
that rattles the broken pavement. It is dusk
and we mothers, swaying under porch lights,
give up our patterned calling--
calling a few children choose
to ignore. One last clang flies from the steeple
to catch in the haggard silhouettes
of cornstalks at town's edge.
Fear is still with us--distilled
in the quick gusts of wind, in the stories
old men tell at Fiddler's U-pump,
in the spikes of dry mud sticking up in empty styes.
With wolves a person could be sure--howling to tell you
yes, still out there. But pigs--the only warning that
scuttling out of nowhere, that grunting
too late. I stay to hear it
dying under the eaves--frustration akin to ours,
of pride and piddle, of harborage and lust,
and I watch red sun blaze through woods
we all walked once to listen and love
and now won't walk without a gun.
under the eaves--conversation of jawbone
and spittle, of cartilage and tusk--
an omen swarming from the dark sheds,
reeling into squealed argument
that rattles the broken pavement. It is dusk
and we mothers, swaying under porch lights,
give up our patterned calling--
calling a few children choose
to ignore. One last clang flies from the steeple
to catch in the haggard silhouettes
of cornstalks at town's edge.
Fear is still with us--distilled
in the quick gusts of wind, in the stories
old men tell at Fiddler's U-pump,
in the spikes of dry mud sticking up in empty styes.
With wolves a person could be sure--howling to tell you
yes, still out there. But pigs--the only warning that
scuttling out of nowhere, that grunting
too late. I stay to hear it
dying under the eaves--frustration akin to ours,
of pride and piddle, of harborage and lust,
and I watch red sun blaze through woods
we all walked once to listen and love
and now won't walk without a gun.
In this seizure by Jonathan Eastman
stabs of light glitter
in the neighborhood trees.
You watch two women walk
arm in arm through a scattering
of green shadow and gold.
One has slender
slender bones that quiver
against a cloud of gnats--
she presses her lids down
and sweeps out her hand
like a dying ballerina.
Without turning, you see
the dog, the one poisoned on Saturday,
dying again under the churchyard fence.
No struggle, just a lurching
back--swelled tongue, eyes
a mirror for the yellow sun.
Your friends have gathered
in the alley. Their voices
go as far as the tracks
and come back. They turn to look
as you waver on the porch;
and you are looking too
as your legs give and your cheeks
break from squinting. Horses
scream from a trailor that passed
yesterday. Someone with cool fingers
lifts your head and behind the face
you notice clouds finding
their proper place for today,
for this moment.
in the neighborhood trees.
You watch two women walk
arm in arm through a scattering
of green shadow and gold.
One has slender
slender bones that quiver
against a cloud of gnats--
she presses her lids down
and sweeps out her hand
like a dying ballerina.
Without turning, you see
the dog, the one poisoned on Saturday,
dying again under the churchyard fence.
No struggle, just a lurching
back--swelled tongue, eyes
a mirror for the yellow sun.
Your friends have gathered
in the alley. Their voices
go as far as the tracks
and come back. They turn to look
as you waver on the porch;
and you are looking too
as your legs give and your cheeks
break from squinting. Horses
scream from a trailor that passed
yesterday. Someone with cool fingers
lifts your head and behind the face
you notice clouds finding
their proper place for today,
for this moment.
Is God Light?
by Jonathan Eastman
Indicative
in Dickinson’s certain slant
our excited vitro dicker--
two specks in a micro-stew of sexual souls
loving now
liltingly above my art deco rug—a burgundy
swirling over titillating teal—a
sand-laced geomantic romance--
archetypal
dust of us alive because illumined, yet
dead
metaphor for two merely moiling,
only in honorarium
of original concupiscence,
having relatively
long ago lit Tennyson’s “broken lights of thee”
but not even
recorded the instant in the chain of and fret
of love's harsh
white plot expanding from the center of Melville's lewd Moby-Dick lens,
not performing
one memorable act to arc the blue ray circumference
or oscillate enough
to invitingly veil or even blur the surge of chaste high definition
or sparkle
in a purple pulsing VR vein of Revelation
bathed by Plath's liars--
true only in their guttering and waxing
bringing shuddering end
to the illusion that lures us to each other
like haiku
syllables drawn to the last letter that killeth, to the quick
lick of life,
our culture's coupling John Paul warned swimmers of--
perpetual drowning
in a cyber-sea of sperm, burning breath and blood
despite crying out
for solid shore—we're whoring with Yeats's apocalypse
in its rising
global gyre of time, falling and scaling
the double helix
salty as Edna St. Vincent said it would be--
blindly stroking hard
back and forth for the lighthouse beam we first beheld
when we, shining, streaming
and slippery, breached the darkening womb.
in Dickinson’s certain slant
our excited vitro dicker--
two specks in a micro-stew of sexual souls
loving now
liltingly above my art deco rug—a burgundy
swirling over titillating teal—a
sand-laced geomantic romance--
archetypal
dust of us alive because illumined, yet
dead
metaphor for two merely moiling,
only in honorarium
of original concupiscence,
having relatively
long ago lit Tennyson’s “broken lights of thee”
but not even
recorded the instant in the chain of and fret
of love's harsh
white plot expanding from the center of Melville's lewd Moby-Dick lens,
not performing
one memorable act to arc the blue ray circumference
or oscillate enough
to invitingly veil or even blur the surge of chaste high definition
or sparkle
in a purple pulsing VR vein of Revelation
bathed by Plath's liars--
true only in their guttering and waxing
bringing shuddering end
to the illusion that lures us to each other
like haiku
syllables drawn to the last letter that killeth, to the quick
lick of life,
our culture's coupling John Paul warned swimmers of--
perpetual drowning
in a cyber-sea of sperm, burning breath and blood
despite crying out
for solid shore—we're whoring with Yeats's apocalypse
in its rising
global gyre of time, falling and scaling
the double helix
salty as Edna St. Vincent said it would be--
blindly stroking hard
back and forth for the lighthouse beam we first beheld
when we, shining, streaming
and slippery, breached the darkening womb.