Dentalium

Clung to a shifting vernacular,
speech unclear, gnawing the soft
inside of the cheek
in nervousness.

I am sure that my inflection
is not quite right.

So it rings like pre-dream
sounds, conversations wove from
ceiling fans and knocking
radiators.

The wisdom teeth
are suspended
evolutionary echoes,
mine puncture the gums
crowd the mouth—
attempt a chance
at gnashing some tough thing,
but these days I hardly
chew meat, and molars
are best fit for sinew.

I thought how romantic
to bury a milk-tooth
under a Banyan tree.

So for some hours
I played witch,
decided fertility would be
the aim, precipitation
the result.

Thus ensued
a continuation of longing,

the rain washed
earth from the spade.

Portraits of My Father at Sea

I.

His memory
drifted--

no, adrift
it went
forth in knots

labyrinthine
longitudes,
tidal shifts

spatial subtleties,
cardinal directions
imperceptible

particular fibers,
particles awash
filtered fast
spineless
shelled

his spirit
transient,
extant, yet
unclassifiable

separation in simple
terms, suggested
categorizations
for the discorporate

we must strictly
stick to stone--
stamp initials
dates, final
remarks

cremation an option
associations strong,
largely undesirable

so, his body 
was casked--
no, casketed
embalmed, emboxed

interred.

defined as 

one:
to place
(a dead body)
in a grave or
tomb; bury

or 

two:
Obsolete.
To put
into the earth.

II.

His memory
adrift, went

sank beneath
the turning
surface
swirling pools
oceanic passage

an image,
the vasty deep
perhaps where
horizon
meets
sea

slight curvature,
shape theories
concerned with
shifting horizons


astronomical
assertions of
spherical
orientations

his body, stationary then
carried east
on engines, wings

those steely
pallbearers

Smithfield, Virginia
directly
beneath the sun

genealogical proximity,
insights into
relations/personal 
tragedies,
beliefs.

III.

His memory
drifts,

drifting
the sea at
eighteen
for  months

left home,
to breathe salty air
to chew boiled meat, 
soft vegetables
in the mess

forks and knives
scraping
in time
a bell rings 
the hours

years later,
a tale about a man
with no teeth
but cafeterial
status

navigation principles
charted clusters
deceased, persistent
then rising 
landmasses off the abyss’
edge

boy of eighteen--
maybe nineteen,
no matter, awash
out about
the mighty ocean
tying knots,
raising sails
hardening skin
on upturned palms.

A Momentous Rediscovery

the summer swept us by

sweat on the brow, sun
on the brim
shine in the eyes, and once
on a vast expanse of field
I looked to you and dared 

to seek my own reflection
in your fluctuating pupils

The Slovenian Bell Ringer

We rang the bells near dawn 
to cue the sunrise,
and the women wept
wailed, donned black for thinking
someone had died. The sun came, haloed its light

on the sounds, and echoes admired themselves
reflecting off the wet grass and distant
crags. Men kept the children
from the belfries, so they pounded sheet metal,
grenade shrapnel, measured out water in
glass bottles to make
various sounds, beat the earth
with scythes and pickaxes
to keep time. It was then
we knew it would crumble, as the bricks
loosened and bells cracked with the hammers’
relentless strikes. We, embracing, fled to the hills
to watch at a distance. From there we saw it,
like giant shining flower bulbs,
like magnificent beasts shot down:
hundreds of bells wheeled away
to toss in the furnace then
flatten, their melted remains
fashioned to bronze cannons.