August 22, 2012

Stalemate by Joanie Mackowski




What are you thinking?
Of phonemes or fire,
my feet in your lap,
the trembling lip
of the coffee cup,
or aren't you sure?
Perhaps you're not who
I thought you were;
perhaps my body here,
pressing down on you: horizon
for flying. I wonder
if your brain's a bird,
an oily crow
that flaps to the tops
of the poplar trees,
its storm eye condensing me
(or just what remains
then, glint and shadow)
to a strand of tinsel.
And through those binoculars
where the saddest colors
in the veins of my wrist
twist a gnarled oak,
your brain with its blue veer,
a leaf in its beak,
builds a nest in my hand
(an uncertain ledge
in an unsteady land).





from the book, "View From A Temporary Window" by Joanie Mackowski