Every twenty-second

Every twenty-second sparrow
comes in shabby from the snow
tired of wresting hands from their owners.

Every dog, attuned to the grief of autumn,
rolls over vaguely for one last belly rub
before we disappear into the Ford Explorer.

It is late, kid, and I can't sit here with you
counting sparrows. Now is the season of
homework, now the bicycle wheels turn into angels

that we press hard into the snow. As if it'd last.
As if joking made the fire grow brighter. As if falling
into bed meant you could ever get back up again.

Turn the wonder-clock back to summer, and even in
the shower you notice you're naked. You know the way
sound pokes through holes in the curtain, to be overplayed,

but tenderly, on the jukebox in a room where we're no longer
dancing. At morning's quiet wedding of grass and sky. At the
boiling of the broken teapots, who no longer whistle but whisper,

loudly, like a kid who doesn't know how to keep a secret. Like you
naked under your favorite clothes. Like the swing-set I don't fit on.
Every twenty-second sparrow brings me back to this calamity of a moment,

and every twenty-third carries me bruised back to my home.
posted by Adam at 10:33 PM [edit]

Melatonin

I am tired of waking up where I started. I miss the mornings of disarray:
head at the foot of the bed, pillow in the air. I miss waking up with no blankets,
or in Chile, or with my mouth someplace where I had to search for it. You say
sleep is kinder when peaceful, and I say I do not want to go down peacefully,
not in sleep or ever. I would wrestle the dark horses to the ground. I would
fight with fury I do not have. When morning comes, I want evidence of tumbling;
I want trampled stars beneath me, or a little splinter of moon gouged in my toe.
Until your night is lying next to my night I won't be quiet, I won't be calmed.
posted by Adam at 11:29 PM [edit]

Left

To all the gymnasts, who are awkward carrying groceries, and even
worse at holding babies. A toast to your inhumanity and grace.

To sit out at night in the parking lot, on the hot paths skateboards
once traveled, before they became one more fad transportation

that never really moved me. Left in the company of frogs, drawn in
colored pencil, who croak in a scattered patter, as if not quite sure

they want a mate. Left so soon, left so open, left so young to be riding
such a sure route. Left on the immigrant soccer fields among discarded jerseys

on a day too hot for jerseys. Left to carve the shape of your family onto everything
you touch, onto the new bundle in your arms, which tests with glistening tongue

the surfaces of things. Left alone to carry it from one half-offered help to another,
one conditional smile, one waking at night to find the little one still beside you,

breathing still, sleeping hard, folding miracle on top of miracle. I want to be there when it wakes.
posted by Adam at 11:30 PM [edit]

Drawing a bath on a midnight Sunday

I am drawing a bath, on paper, into which to put my body and this Sunday.
The dappled fighters of the resistance have gone to market and I'm in nothing but a robe.
The roads are leading even farther than where they led yesterday, the melons
are too ripe and are sighing down from the trees, everything is ready and I
am dipping a toe in the bath, which is too hot still. The cars outside make streaks
like we make them in photos. The commercial music plays in the background. My friends
are out. I turn the water off. With all the clamor of dying Sunday screaming at the
windows, I take my bath. And I won't apologize to you or anyone. Not tonight.
posted by Adam at 10:47 PM [edit]

A jealous moon around a jealous earth around a jealous sun

The Prince wakes up thinking about land ownership. Now that uncles are dying and children keep getting older, one has to understand one's own possessions. So he calls a family meeting and hands everyone a ball of string. "Use this to mark what you think is yours," he said. "At the end of the day we will arbitrate any disputes in the most peaceful manner possible.

Aunt Nell is driven to distraction by the notion that someone else might string in her land. She spends all day patrolling its corners and disputing over single trees. Only at sundown does she realize that her own ball of string is still intact, her land unmarked. This event has no moral; it is simply an explanation of what Aunt Nell did, how she lost her land, and why she wound up proclaiming that she had left behind all earthly possessions to become a woman of God.

Wimberly Someone's Nephew was always getting into tangles with animals. A badger would come out from its den and, finding a bit of string handy, would hang its little treasures from it. A bird, seeing fodder for a nest, would fly off with an end of string, land in the warmer Southern parts, and that is how Wimberly became the owner of lands he had never visited, a Prince of people whose language he found as horrifying and unfamiliar as they his. He has since grown to love the South, and spends his winters there in a large home on wheels.

Francisco was hoping to increase his bounty and thus fabricated an identical string which he proceeded to use to tie the whole country in a bundle. An Empire of Twine was all Francisco's. When he saw all his kingdom wrapped up like a sweater the prince just laughed, poured Francisco a bottle of wine, and said, "A jealous moon around a jealous earth around a jealous sun."
posted by Adam at 9:12 PM [edit]