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November 7, 2023 Poetry

3 Poems

Taylor Micks

3 Poems photo

       A R I E L ,  L O C K E D  I N  T H E  T R E E S

                I have been here so long,
                and never known anyone—

                windlessness elapsing
                in leaves. I never knew

                an undisturbed peace
                to grip my sedulous fear. 

                I have taken to seeing
                things as part whole.

                The maples smolder pyrite,
                a kinder corollary

                left breathing inside.
                The dead ash trees

                in mottled vertices
                climb slenderer

                against the far, flimsy blue.


     B L A C K  F R I D A Y ,  

     C O F F M A N  C E M E T E R Y  R O A D

                Kitsch cottage for my honeymoon, obelized
                in life’s logbook— it’s view of many mansions.
                The floor slants and the roof is low on both
                stories. Here a farm tenant clan numbering
                a dozen pastured ruminants and wintered
                the gold limned shadow receding to moraines.
                  Every job is hard and every job is boring
                my wife counsels when I oppose my work.
                Weightless bulls in the hills lay to the earth
                and chew what has been eaten. Wind notes
                and flakes suffuse the air. What is certain
                more than any lone thing is love shown to me.
                Dusk briefly welcomes a light beyond the sky.


     T H E  H I S T O R Y  O F  L E A D

                  Inside of me     a Tang dynasty pot
                            with timid arched handles,
                    and a flourished lip
                              exactly the width of a thumb.
                  From a kiln, you, pot in the hands
                            of a dignitary, or in abeyance
                    and behind glass
                            determine what and how I contain,
                  but without ever deserving to touch it.
                           I carried Roman water
                                   like a trickster god, for miles
                    underground, across
                                             miles of my skin,
                   skewered through seven hills,
                                and I sickened their minds
                    even as they thrived.
                          In scratchings of later dictation
                  my body was crushed for veracity
                                  like that of a saint: became
                    a manifold voice, wildernesses—
                               the clefts and serifs of my blood
                   visited in reliquary.
                             And for a long time now
                    I have run from sudden fires.  
                                     What I do out of fear
                                I lay at your feet.