Michael Lauchlan ~ Five Poems

Poem Following a Line from Philip Larkin

On the day of the explo­sion, cows
kept chew­ing and we went to work,
cough­ing out dis­may in pro­sa­ic bursts
and scrolling news, weigh­ing the chance
of an ear­ly win­ter. On the morning
of the dis­as­ter, I held a woman
in my arms. All clothes and plans
had been dis­card­ed. No wailing
pierced the walls of her house.
The light angling through blinds
could not have been more innocent.
On the night of the bomb­ings, I stood
alone at a par­ty watch­ing dancers
until I couldn’t any­more and walked
out­side with a plas­tic cup of wine.
The air was crisp and mountains
framed the dark and every­thing still
felt sour because I’d brought
myself along. Outside a prison,
Akhmatova missed her son Lev
and maybe one of her lovers
and not­ed the Leningrad snow
and a silence falling on the day.

~

Congregations

Though his back is turned, I recognize
Stephen, bounc­ing a foot as he reads
on a bench under red­den­ing trees.
But this is not about my friend’s
forth­com­ing book or his hyper­ac­tive quads
and his vora­cious mind. I’m taken
by a con­gre­ga­tion of hard­woods, a small
devout off-shoot of a once vast
for­est. I’ve left my stale lecture
to stand on Liberal Arts’ low­est steps
and let my eyes go branch to branch
across all the west­ern counties
to a dense wood with its cool
fern breath, its mud­dy trails
wind­ing toward a stream. I have
a minute to imag­ine some deer
step­ping through river­ine light to ease
down the bank. Difficult not to think
of shy stu­dents coax­ing words
from their throats, but this is not
about under­grads. It’s the stub­born trees
out­last­ing plows, doz­ers, chainsaws,
fish-tail­ing cars, and piss­ing dogs.
Soon, a tow­er clock will chime
class into ses­sion and my friend
will bear his end­less curiosity
into a meet­ing and the chang­less ones
will exhale what we crave.

~

Fuse

The octo­pus fur­nace had undergone
a con­ver­sion but coal dust
still coat­ed every­thing Five
on the steps     I saw sparks
cas­cade from the fuse box
around my shad­owed father
He held a screw­driv­er with something
less than con­vic­tion as he poked
at the lethal web’s snarl of wires
His short pas­sage on earth might
have been short­er        He’d returned
already from the Pacific War
and hob­bled on as though
he was OK        like all of them
It tan­gled him snared us
But on that night        lights
came back on and whatever
light­ning crack­led the air
was spent in a hiss
on the dank      uneven floor

~

Notes to a Self

You aren’t dust motes
drows­ing through your kitchen
in late after­noon sun.
You’re weight­i­er and less
grace­ful. At a party
you’re sure to say
the wrong thing at just
the wrong time. Be glad
if you don’t choke
on the strange canapés.

More free than pollen
and dust, you can bolt
out into the lilac-diesel air
and dri­ve away and even use
your smart phone to write
to Congress or quit your job
if you want. You forget
you’re cells and bone
and hair, appetite and urge.
You think you choose
where your eyes flit,
where you click. Quaint.
You think you are where
you’re head­ing, instead of what
you’ve left behind, toe­nail clips,
fin­ger­prints, trash, texts.

No drift­ing mote,
you are capa­ble of regret.
You might have been
a bet­ter father/husband/
coach/plumber if only
you knew more when
your joints con­tained cartilage.
Your dog seems to sleep through
regret bet­ter than you.
Smart dog. Smart,
smelly, hairy, rest­ful dog.
She stretch­es and shakes and sends
flecks into the red­den­ing light.

~

Worried Song

Bungalows, weeds, sun flecked
maples, a pass­ing truck–the shape
of a street prints itself on each
soft thought find­ing breath.

Think of an hour almost beyond
time’s reach, as if time were a beast
chas­ing us down a cor­ri­dor instead
of a spring unwind­ing in our cells.

Maybe we get beyond for a night
spent in thrall of a pair of eyes
or an Irish song that keeps

unfold­ing after a bar closes,
keeps thrum­ming until sleep
threads itself into my forehead.

No surprise–I found this new
long­ing when mor­tal­i­ty crashed
his Dodge Dart into my house.

Hear it? A thrush pleads his case
in a hot dusk. I stare out,
long­ing for a phrase that might
lift a cor­ner of the earth.

~

Michael Lauchlan has con­tributed to many pub­li­ca­tions, includ­ing New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, and Lake Effect. His most recent col­lec­tion is Trumbull Ave., from WSU Press.