Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Rua: An Elegy in Holes (Poem)

Here's another one from my "Cloudfire" sequence.

Feedcrack welcome (if you lurkers and RSS readers please).

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Rua*: An Elegy in Holes

My journal propped to the day you fell around the earth, dropped to a point I can only approximate anymore with a secondhand map, some tacks, and a string to slice away the pudding skin of memory, I prop these skin-thin proofs in my aperture casement, watch you drop through my hunger by layers like when we excavated the neighbor’s sandbox, made the hole so deep we could map every sheet of clay, stand tip-toed, arms raised against the grave, voice leveled into soil, and still hide from the world, though Mom still managed to find us, conjugating our name in the breeze—she must have mapped our desire from the womb, known we’d eventually start digging holes to contain the fire licking our bones, the lust that’s propped me in the window of your first Auckland flat to watch you unpack—shirts, slacks, socks, shoes, suits, the nightly routine you’ve worn so long it’s threadbare at the knees—to air the ethereal between us with a length of mist, foreign soil, and mid-summer breeze, the line you’ll hang memories on after rain until they're dry enough to take notes on, to slide into your billfold beside NZ dollars creased in thirds, ridges grimy with the island’s fingerprints, like my camera lens, blurred by the hands of Māori kids who’ve dropped into the hole we dug and propped themselves against the walls, their fingers plugging the dike of memory to keep me from wrapping the world in spools of secondhand wind.

*Māori: (noun) hole, pit, burrow, chasm, grave, store (for provisions), abyss.