Elegy Owed Read Online Free PDF Page A

September 11th.
    I’ll be told all day how to feel about the morning
    of September 11th. Told how to mourn the morning
    of September 11th. If terror is said
    seven times in a row, it loses meaning, becomes
    humdrum, a mere timpani of ear.
    If terror is said seven hundred
    thousand million trillion times, I am being raped
    by a word. I feel it was clever
    to fly planes into buildings, that evil
    is clever in the way rust is clever, eating itself
    as it goes, that peace is clever in the way a stone
    is clever, and I’ll tuck a stone
    from my garden inside a bell
    wrapped in a poem about a bell, the poem
    wrapped in the makings of a slingshot, the makings
    wrapped in the afterbirth of a fox, the afterbirth
    wrapped in the budget for the Defense Department.
    So mirrored someone will face the question
    of what weapons to make and what forgiveness
    to perfect and what to honor in nature
    and what to abhor in the nature
    of what we do. These
    are our complicated times
    so far, my complicated time capsule
    so far. My lament so far, my praise
    so far as it takes me: to a hole
    it takes me, to a shovel, to putting wind
    in, the keen, the mean, but also
    the hush, the blush, the dream
    of getting along free of froth
    and din. Clearly I need, I need, I need
    a bigger box.

Another holiday has come and gone

    It’s shoot-an-arrow
    into-your-ceiling day, I’m out of arrows,
    I go to the neighbors
    to borrow a cup of arrows, they’re making love
    on the floor doggy style, in that
    she barks then he barks
    at her barking, then it’s over
    and they circle in front of the door
    to be let out, We’re trapped,
    I tell my lover later
    on the phone, Do you mean us, she asks, I lie
    and tell her No, I mean every other person
    but us, we are free, we
    are entirely wings and little bits
    of fog and the open windows
    of speeding cars and Carmen
    at the end, when the performers
    take their bows to the rush of air
    from between our palms, forgetting
    she is deaf, that she’s heard nothing
    I’ve said, that this is a poem,
    that I am out of arrows and more
    importantly out of bows

Ink

    I feel obligated to get a tattoo.
    It’s how the skin of the species
    is evolving. If I continue
    living without plumage,
    it will be impossible to mate
    or hold a conversation
    with a banker. My favorite
    is strawberry ice cream. Not
    average-size scoops, Baskin-
    Robbins-size scoops
    but three and tiny
    I discovered one night
    tattooed to a thigh.
    It was the possibility
    of kissing a private dessert
    I so admired. I’ve decided
    to get tattoos of my eyes
    on the inside of my eyelids
    so I can stare at the oceans
    of my dreams. I’ll have
    muscles tattooed to my chest,
    money to my palms, the smell
    of honeysuckle to my breath. I want
    BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF FIRE
    tattooed to my brain, mouths
    to the bottom of my feet, you
    to me. There is not
    enough art in this life.
    Tattoo my front door
    to my tombstone and place
    a key on my tongue
    like a mint. It’s not for me
    to decide whether my return
    will be called
    breaking out or breaking in.

Shed and dream

    Rest with me under the linden tree.

    I do not have a linden tree.

    Come with me to buy a linden tree, stopping first
    at the bank, for I need a loan to buy a linden tree.

    Stay with me while the linden tree grows.

    We can have babies while the linden tree grows,
    colorectal cancer while the linden tree grows,
    an infestation of ladybugs while the linden tree grows.

    Babies sleep on blue blankets in July,
    shadows of heart-shaped leaves
    brushing their new faces as the linden tree grows.

    Let us warn others of the hard work of the linden tree.

    Then rest with me beside the knocked-down shed and dream
    of the cherry tree.

    O pie in the sky.

You can never step into the same not going home again twice

    There was confusion on my end.
    I thought Jesus was bringing the five-bean salad.
    I thought the war had ended.
    I thought I limped on the left side.
    I