hobart logo

October 28, 2016 | Poetry

Two Poems

Aubrey Ryan

Two Poems photo

Trump & A Syllabus of Goals

To gift you the stink of goats.
To gift you bright whey.
To neon-bright your mouth

with sorrel & rind
& mouth for you
some many hums.

To hood you for bees. See:
apiary.  See: proper dress
for a choir loud glade. You

with your choir loud rage.
I’ll call you by name: I’ll
eye you easy as sky.

There’s a world & much
to know of it, & aren’t you
a connoisseur? Consider

the oboe. Consider
my cousin teaching oboe
in Kabul, all night carving reeds

for the mouths of huge eyed
babes. Such babes. I used to
lose her in the grainy alley

of my ass-wrong thoughts,
used to find her burnt &
bombed, but she’s eating

pomegranates.
She’s listening to List.
I take this

to mean: we own
no truths at all.
I know an old, old

stead. Down a road,
through trees, & days
go like there’s no

switch, there’s only sun
& a slow curl away
from sun. Lay down

your beastly head.
Some Grand-one
In the nightboards

will tell you the kindest
tale: the bone & shit
tale: the worms with their

dark & ardent maps
of earth. We’re dying,
fast as red-tails, so

go ahead & call me
love, & call the boy
lipping the reed

all to shreds
your face in my mirror,
where I’m holding

the sight: O you
kicked hive- alive
as all us living.


I Am Telling You Stories

Believe me. We’re in your home, in the kitchen
of your home. A stove full of logs & a story: Once

there was a woman whose belly curved like the long
horizon, & she fell from the sky & gave birth

to land. Once, we were dirt. Once, salt of sea.
Does this help your heart? Do you fear like me

for your children? When no one knows we’re land.
When no one knows we’re that sky woman, fierce

with seed. I’m telling you stories: The sky woman died
& her heart became berries. Someday you’ll be

so old: your hands a cross between roots & sparrows.
You’ll have enough wood, or you will not. Your children

will grow, or they will not. Here: a story where they
are men with hands in loam. Bluestem & dock. Here

is a story: you are a prairie where your children
stand, rowdy for the sun. You were old & they

lay you down. Your ribs petal open on the prairie
& where once was your heart there’s a bird

telling stories: Children, there once was a woman.
Children, there is earth here that made you.

 

image: Aaron Burch


SHARE