Flynn - I will destroy you: poems

Graywolf Press Copyright 2019 by Nick Flynn The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law.

If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the authors copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. Significant support has also been provided by Target, the McKnight Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks. Published by Graywolf Press 250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600 Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401 All rights reserved. www.graywolfpress.org Published in the United States of America ISBN 978-1-64445-002-4 Ebook ISBN 978-1-64445-101-4 2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1 First Graywolf Printing, 2019 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019931349 Cover design: Kapo Ng Cover art: Kahn & Selesnick for lilia fierce desire as when / two shadows mingle on a wall How is it we have walked through fire & yet are not consumed?

I admit you havent heard from me in a while.

In me theres a little liar. And a little thief. And a little whore. Forgive mewhile writing these words I was lost in a trance the sky wild blue, fruit trees jeweled with ice if not for what Id promised, I wouldnt be here at all. You were with me when I found that box in the basementopening it was like entering a room & having (at last!) someone else breathe for me. No one, as you know, sets out to lose their mind.

This poem began as a secretnot from you, I didnt know you then. Now, it wears its shame like a halo. Please, take it, rip it up, put it in your glass. We can watch it dissolve.

He wanders among us, village to village, hauling his sack of rats. Nightfall he stands, at the edge now of ours & in the dark releases them.

They gnaw our sills & eat our grain, they fill our wells & find our cribs & lurk among our apples. Morning comes, his shingle hung the solution is his song. Some offer gold, some offer milk, what else to do, were over run, we each must make a promise. Those without, what can we offer a child will do, just give a name, hell fold it up, hell take our word, his smile a blackened sickle. Morning comes, he plays his song, past barn, past gate, the rats now wake, they go to him, the song he plays, they tumble out & tumble in & back into his sack. When he returns, his fee now owed, some sense a trick, some sense a lie & some refuse to pay him.

Our promise breaks, he shakes his head, he wanders off, we sense a chill, the woods around us dark & deep, the trees around us listen. That night hes back, the song he plays, our children rise now up from sleep & out they stream, into the street, parade away behind him. Morning now & no one knows & morning now & no one hears & to this day theyre huddled now & somewhere now theyre waking.

The radio claims the secret is simpleits to always want to know what comes next & to let that want pull you back from the ledge, again & again. I have a friend who, the years he was drinking, would, every night, stack all the furniture in his living room in front of his sliding glass door, which led out to his fifth-floor balcony . Couch. Table. Chair. Bookcase. Bookcase.

For years he dragged his furniture, every night as the sun went away & in the morning he put it all back in place, never con sidering, not once, that maybe he should stop. The one promise I can make is that Im staying even though what knocks on our door at night has at its heart only my getting lost, even though some part of it wants me dead, which is why I feed it with a stick. Youve already met it, but it didnt show you all its teeth. It knew it had to lull you in, it knew you were skittery. It let you feed it by hand, it let you put a finger in its mouth, into its good, good mouth.

Heres the dealif you die then I will be able to drink again & no one alive will even blame methis, child, is the dark wind in side, but not the darkest. Heres the dealif you die then I will be able to drink again & no one alive will even blame methis, child, is the dark wind in side, but not the darkest.

Then I think, Ill have another child, a backup, in another city, with another woman, just in case. Then I think, Ill call this , POEM TO BE WHISPERED BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SLEEPING CHILD, so when youre older youll understand. Then I think, this isnt even a poem.

You do know, right, that between the no longer & the still to-come we are being continually tattooed, inked with the skulls of everyone weve ever loved the you & the you & the you & the you you dont sit in a chair, thumb through a binder, pick a design, it simply happens, each time you bring your fingers to your face to inhale her back inside. Tiny skulls, some of us are covered. In every city theres a room lined with boxes of the un claimed, each about the size of half a loaf of good bread. In every city theres a room lined with boxes of the un claimed, each about the size of half a loaf of good bread.

My friend collects these boxes, which he then brings home & opens & empties into a bucket to mix with a medium to make another painting. One box is smaller, only as big as a few sticks of butter, five days old typed out on the label. My friend does not even open it, he cannot, it is heavier than you might imagine. Box of stardust, he places it in the center of a large white canvas, all he can do.

Ive been wandering this desert so long, then another shitty little town appears, which I mistake (again) for an oasis. Out front of the saloon, a few horses hitched up scrawny, mismatched horses.

O Lord , I whisper, be my lookout , as I un hitch the healthiest-looking one & simply ride off. Long ago, when I quit drinking ( the first time ), I heard that if, as a drunk, you were a good horse thief, youd be a better horse thief sober. I took this as one of the promises of sobriety. Now, each night, my hands come alive, hum out sparks. Some, I hear, want to be caughtI swear I just want the horse.