Poetry
Feverish
By Joanna Klink
Too hurt to understand
too feverish to wonder
as when wonder spreads
through a grove of white pines
and the whiteness hums.
Those who move too fast
see the world around them as
static and calculate even the skin-
cells and tree-duff as a single
stream of gathering loss.
When the evening smoked
around the branches I felt
my face go quiet and a water
draw through my spine.
Orphan of every despair,
were you here
with me you would see
the whiteness in the matted
grasses, form and gold
where the darkness cannot
touch us. Because
we are separate
now, and the night
arrived, I must bear it myself.
♦♦♦
I woke into the rainy day
thinking there was a window
through which I might climb.
Heavy dreams where sunlight
races over stones and the people
I’ve known come and go.
So much hurry and transport,
as if a wind gliding into the yard
were just another item on a
list. Mesas and savannas—
what happened to us
happened because we could not
stop. Needing time
for nicknames, belief in un-
inhabited wildernesses, in the
twelve hours of thunder
over these hills. Hope is a place
held for the unknown,
where you are beyond
anything I can say. Like animals
who form a quiet lake in the grass
long before scattering.
♦♦♦
To ward off fear we could
listen for the burble of
the hermit thrush or else
learn joy in the chickadees’
three-dot-note. Outwardly
you make safety in anonymity
but I know some part of you
opens as the day opens,
as the tomcat stretches then
marches lion-like through
the neighbor’s wet weeds.
At times I have sensed no change
through the valley’s haze
and felt the dozing stranglehold of
stillness. At times for years.
But the lines drawn in books
are the lines etched in cliffs by
the river and the swallows burrow
in them. River-cortège, cortège
of each living thing that unfolds—
a bird its wings, a forest,
an old man his eyes.
♦♦♦
Wasp at the nest under
the garden table, smashed
a barrette. A minute
to stare at these black
grooves in my hands.
To be worthy of the dirt
that will one day surround my
body I say a blessing to
constancy, friendship, hammocks
and meals. Joy was never
our birthright. But it was an honor
to have loved you, to have woken
into you, to have been wide-
awake in you. I’m more
at ease now, when the day goes
astray as it does, and sometimes
let those around me be. Perhaps
the way to despair is based in
certainty. Having lived
with you, I move through
this yard slowly, most evenings,
knowing very little.
Joanna Klink is currently the Briggs-Copeland Poet at Harvard University. Her third book of poems, Crisis Lyrics, is forthcoming from Penguin in 2010.
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