Five Poems
Frequently asked
Why does the moon follow me as I drive
the old coast road, Rockport to Rockport, Mass
to Maine, how many moons has Jupiter, why
do fathers eat their children, what happens to us
as you sleep, why do some people have sweet voices,
sprigs of lilac, what is a stormy petrel,
what is pitch, what do clams eat, what would happen
if there was no dust, why does everyone fall,
what was the name of that diner where we ate
steamers and onion rings, brains and halos,
where is memory, how does paint dry, are my teeth
the same as the teeth of cows, why do I think
in circles when I’m lost, hailstones, could there be
a collision of planets, of stars, do sea stars
have eyes in each of their rays, cantilever,
the hunter, his dog, the bull, Castor, the other, why,
why does the moon follow me as I drive
as you sleep, why do some people have sweet voices,
a nightingale sang on her lips in the cradle,
how were tunnels built, how were pins first made,
stick a needle in your eye and hope to cry, where
was that where we took the ferry to the island
where we played cryptography, how did my father
work his slide rule, can an echo travel through
a collision of planets, of stars, do sea stars
have a call of their own, who was it who sailed
a golden cup from Greece to the edge of the world
to kill a winged monster, a fugue state, Bach,
how does blood know when to migrate, who first
went to seed, read a pulse, what causes the peacock
to raise his feathers and faint, why do we blink,
how were eels laid across the Atlantic, why,
why are satellites named after women, who first,
how can a sun dial tell us when we up and die.
According to the doctrine of signatures
At dusk when people are shifting spaces
from public to private, I replace the license plates
on their cars with lightning whelks or cherry blossoms
arranged into hills, waterfalls, and deserts,
then I flip the kadigan on my special box
to make the traffic lights stay red, permanent
patience, you see, my father was a pipe reader
and eavesdropping on his sessions, as a kid,
was the inspiration for my work, his clinic
was on the first floor of our house in Syracuse,
a few blocks from the Temple of Apollo,
I’d sneak into the laundry room just above
his office and press my ear to the rheumy floor
to hear his clients describe their plumbing ills,
rusty water, rattling faucets, the scent
of flowering beanstalks choking lead elbows,
then my father would forecast their future
romances, treasures, tragedies, and children
arranged into hills, waterfalls and deserts,
from public to private, I replace the license plates
at dusk when people are shifting spaces,
to help them capture their fugitive encounters
with the numinous I attach rosaries of bone
and seed to their aerials, lotus and tarsus,
so they can hear the northern mockingbird
a few blocks from the Temple of Apollo
assuming the mantic song of the police siren,
I bend a Dreamsicle stick into a wooden crow
to jimmy your car door and leave a water globe
containing an octopus hatchling on your dash,
take it home, place it in your sanctorium
among the gewgaws and gimcracks, hang your fetish
around its dome and confess your whetted secrets
to the other side, bring the angel to the shore
at dawn when people are shifting spaces,
rusty water, rattling faucets, the scent
of lupines barking at the edge of the sea
formed when a giant slipped and fell from heaven.
Wine, honey, flowers, night, etc.
Shunned sleep, all night, listened to the transistor
under my pillow, parsing “Telstar,” trying to hear
their voices below the telecaster, the moon scribbled
my face with silver and kohl, near dawn I fell
from bed and scratched my bean against the floor
to light my aura, made my bare feet squeal peeling
over the icy floorboards through my empty shotgun
into the kitchenette to microwave day old coffee,
I opened the window and peed on the dandelions,
the pigsweed, the thistle, the creeping Charlie
and I saw the pale horse, or was it a mule, eating apples
from a collapsing tree, once upon
when I had a family we’d ride the train
to the country and stare at cows, sheep and grids
of golden wheat, once we paid a farmer to let us
pick his pears, was it even legal to ride a horse
in the city, or was it a mule, a white donkey,
when the animal turned to drink skunk water
from the deflated kiddie pool I saw ten
red digits painted on her side, I gave my neighbor
the finger, zippered-up, and found my cell
and started dialing, her long mane was braided
with gold, velvet ribbons that flickered under
branches of maple, red and sugar, a soft breeze
pushed the chains on my porch that once supported
an oak glider, it took me a while to realize
that the barking I heard was coming from my phone,
my boy’s toy, the hinnie, or was it a pony, leaped
my hedges and cantered down the sidewalk, I chanted
and sang and beat my palms against the drywall
the pigsweed, the thistle, the creeping Charlie,
their voices below the telecaster, the moon scribbled
rooms as I tried to recall that phone number,
if that’s what it was and if that’s what it was
I knew I needed to call upon that tremolo,
I ran out and grabbed his camo 3‑speed, Stingray
from under the porch and peeled out to chase
apples from a collapsing tree, once upon.
Untenanted
A melon was peeled to reveal pink flesh, past
its best, still, it was not unusual to see
patients in straight jackets playing lawn tennis,
late sun on the cutting board, a carving knife
exposed a flash of Cyrillic on a cucumber,
still, a woman with silk fans sewn to her hands
ran across the old polo field and signaled
to a crop duster: Alfa: Echo: India:
and down came a head of cabbage and an apple
suspended on satin parachute threads, still
a guest wrapped an ear of corn in bunting,
like a baby, and sang it to sleep, minced basil
almost in reach, Schumann, foreign lands and people
ran across the old polo field and signaled
late sun on the cutting board, a carving knife
dreamed of sinking into a geek’s gullet, lilacs
in a vase, cut glass, the croquet champion
chased a colleague with a mallet, bird’s eye shaft,
ivory head, walnut shells, peach pits, a bunch
of white grapes, two plastic mugs, still, once a month
the habitués were allowed to visit
the formaldehyde library and check-out jars
of pig-boys, grave wax gals, and kinder-mer,
a book of waltzes, a drawing of a shell and a straw
for blowing talk bubbles, a half-peeled lemon,
the woodwright used hickory for the amputees’
peglegs because it had a jive to support
a strut lacking, shave and bend the limbs while green,
mortise and tendon, tongue and groove, dovetails
in a vase, cut glass, the croquet champion
suspended on satin parachute threads, still
on Sundays the dwellers threw pea beans, tubers,
wild carrots and slim jims into a tub,
slumguillion stew, still, a fellow threw stones
at the fence, smiling at each spit of voltage
like a child wearing his father’s eyeglasses,
flowering quince and peaches were complemented
by the suggestive gourds, dancing in the corner.
The crocodilist
I was going to raise a daughterand believed
a crocodile would be a swell animal
for a pet, but in the end, no, I never could
raise a daughter, something in the air, something
in the water, still, I had a hatchling snoozing
in a coral room filled with menacing sets
of onsies, booties, rattles, and rubber dummies,
I named my darling General Ulysses Lee,
an old family name, one has to commit to a name
the way one commits to hair-dos or asylums,
I was a helliculturalist, a snailer
running half-a-million shells on a half-acre
ranchette near the border, I gathered their slime
from Scotch pines and one black maple, a back number,
to sell by the thimbleful to Shanghai for love
supplements and to Paris for perfumes,
the most corrupt roots harbored the sweetest urges,
each night Genny soaked in the tub she took heed
to leave warm water and suds for her sister,
the fragrance, the rose haint, the girl without
a breath to call her own, riding out the doldrums,
something in the air, something in the water, still
Gennie grew, thank god, into a lovely petulance,
and on Tuesdays we practiced driving by driving
our Citroen to the Hospital Niagara
to deliver a basket of green apple snails
to the children’s ward, she tucked her great tail
beneath her legs and fiddled with the radio
as she drove, looking for Chopin, it’s his 200th
she said, am I the only one who cares, I whistled
a nocturne until she covered her ears and smiled,
the fragrance, the rose haint, the girl without
a nocturne until she covered her ears and smiled,
the morning sun soaked the dreary clouds and lit
Genny’s retainer, nimbus, her skin struggled
to find sympathy against the Naugahyde seats
and the cushion, made from heavy, yellow beads so
sandalwood prayers massaged her armor scales,
the hospital had been a haute mall, Bavarian
limestone, brushed titanium, and hand-blown glass,
a security guard tipped his cap as we passed
main gate, blue hyacinth lined the driveway,
tonsured barberry bushes purred like sun-rusted cats,
a wreck of marooned gooneys starched a pear tree
while finches stuffed the larches with libretti
that had blown from the music room’s open window
which we closed when we set-up our music stands
and the stage from a paper doll theater,
we placed two gifted Sinistrals on the proscenium
as I introduced our program to a room
of onsies, booties, rattles, rubber dummies,
and seven or eight children, in wooden wheelchairs
with their attendants, Genny and I used wands
(mouse whiskers stiffened in varnish made
from Scotch pines and one black maple, a back number)
to influence the magnetic currents that flowed
between the snail’s antennae to produce music,
Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, in G Major,
something in the air, something in the water, still
the most corrupt roots harbored the sweetest urges,
after the show we taught the children how to play
and left them with snails, wands, and aero bars,
after, we sat on a puddingstone wall across
the road from main gate, facing a lavender meadow,
blue crows beaked the earth for gizzard stones,
I watched a biplane, was it leaving messages
or bug juice, Gennie covered her tail with flowers
to protect her skin from the sun, did you know,
I said, that before the business with the snails
we were lavender farmers, really, I said, under
her giggling, we grew it, dried it, and ground it
into paint, Jackson Pollock traveled all the way
from Long Island to secure a sachet of our color
for his masterpiece, Lavender Mist, but after
the decline of abstract expressionism
we switched to slow art, gastropods, crocs, and love,
she opened our lunch pail, pizza heroes, ginger ale,
and two pink vitamins shaped like dinosaurs,
sandalwood prayers massaged her armor scales,
I was going to raise a daughter and believed.
~
Peter Shippy’s fourth book, A Spell of Songs (Saturnalia), will be published in fall 2013. His work appeared/appears in the 2012 and 2013 editions of The Best American Poetry.