Olstein - Radio Crackling, Radio Gone
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- Book:Radio Crackling, Radio Gone
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- Publisher:Copper Canyon Press
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- Year:2012
- City:New York
- Rating:3 / 5
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We hope you enjoy these poems. This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible.for my parents, Linda and Michael Olstein,and for David
I stopped loving you when you asked me to. A moth at the door is a sign. It would have happened if shed filled her pockets with stones. It wouldnt have happened if shed waited one second more. I started loving you when your sleeve caught fire. I started loving you in a boat at sea.
When it happens, how long before a crowd accumulates, people and pigeons lining the curb? How long before we can gauge the tensile strength of the moment, some place where it breaks? One mans meat, anothers treason. One mans trash, anothers each-to-his-own. One snow, suddenly birds are twice their usual size, feather coats puffed around them, coming up with mouthfuls of sometimes seed, sometimes snow.
In the interim I imagine the span of time from when the smooth hard snout finds me and begins to push only if you promise not to tell to when we come into view of a shore only this once any shore. In the interim I pray for what should come to come. I pray for the cat to come out from under the floorboards only every once in a while to come down from the tall maple, to come back alive only if you say so in one piece, still in her collar. I pray to be saved, to be sent far away, to be allowed to just stay home only another month or two just stay home and erase the objects in each room with my mind while holding them in my hands only a matter of time now. I do want to hold them in my hands, to hold them to my lungs by way of deep breath only since July and a deeper sense of inhalation. I pray for you only just this once to press out from the small veins at the back of my eyes only you back out into the world. I pray for you to come and sit by me only a few more minutes now.
All around us, the hesitation of year-rounders who know the warmer air will bring crowds. No one goes to their therapist to talk about how happy they are, but soon Id be back in the dugout telling my batting coach how the view outside my igloo seemed to be changing, as if the night sky were all the light there is. Now, like two babies reaching through the watery air to touch soft fingers to soft forehead, like blind fish sensing a familiar fluttering in the waves, slowly, by instinct, we became aware. Off-field, outside the park, beyond the gates, something was burning. The smell was everywhere.
Wed just planted the near field, the far one the day before. Id never seen it so clear, so gusty, so overcast, so clear, so calm. They say pearls must be worn or they lose their luster, and that morning I happened to remember, so I put them on for milking, finding some sympathy, I guess, between the two. Usually I dont sit down until much later in the day. The lobelia was curling in the sun. One by one birds flew off, and that should have been a sign.
Trust is made and broken. I hardly sit down at all. It was the time of year for luna moths, but we hadnt had any yet settling on the porch or hovering above the garden Id let the wild rose take.
Im not one to have dreams where animals can speak, but last night a weeping mare Id been told to bridle wanted me to save her. We discussed what was left of her ability to take children for rideshow much trot, how much canter but I wasnt sure I could do it, having already bridled her and all. I was once very brave. Once I was very brave. I was very brave once. I boarded a plane before dawn.
I carried all those heavy bags. I stayed up the whole night before folding the house into duffel bags. I took a curl from the base of your skull and opened the door to the rusty orange wagon and weighed those heavy duffel bags and smiled at the airport official. I boarded a tiny propeller plane and from a tiny window I watched you walk back to the rusty orange wagon. They say the whole world is warming by imperceptible degrees.
This will be the gift of myrrh. This will be the gift of take off the head and the feet but give me the neck for soup. This will be the gift of close your eyes, of nearly dusk at the petting zoo, of listen, you cant hear them anymore. Under a boat a cricket has night all day warm and starless, more than dark enough. Hawks fly and airplanes and in the marsh a great blue heron. This is how the baby should be put in its seat.
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