The child tells me, put a brick in the tank,
don’t wear leather, don’t eat brisket,
snapper, or farmed salmon—not tells,
orders—doesn’t she know the sluice gates
are wide open and a trillion gallons
wasted just for the dare of it?
Until the staring eye shares that thrill,
witnessing: I am just iris and cornea,
blind spot where brain meets mind,
the place where the image forms itself
from a spark—image of the coming storm.
Still the child waits outside the bathroom
with the watch she got for Best Essay,
muttering, two minutes too long.
Half measures, I say. She says, action.
I: I’m one man. She: Seven billion.
If you choose, the sea goes back.
|1995-01-01||Oklahoma City: The Aftermath||Ira Sadoff|
|2005-04-21||War Is Kind [excerpt]||Stephen Crane|
|2006-03-31||It Was Raining in Delft||Peter Gizzi|
|2006-04-02||Untitled Poem [Unslide the door]||Joshua Beckman|
|2006-04-03||Farewell to Yang, Who's Leaving for Kuo-chou||Wang Wei|
|2006-04-04||One-Word Poem||David R. Slavitt|
|2006-04-05||What Came to Me||Jane Kenyon|
|2006-04-07||Stone Bird||Pattiann Rogers|
|2006-04-08||International Incidents||Robert Hershon|