Unceremoniously Ohio, we our ship
& without haste we are the garden,
the generous revelation of no beacon,
no shore, no sand that would ever take
a toe deeper than the rock. Verb
without modification, steadfast
as a ravine, the simplicity
in our killing is the lack of searching.
The bodies in the tree? They are family
& beauty we didn’t have time to dip
low into the Olentangy. They are victims
of the awfulness of our pure intentions
& unformed substances. I’m sure
as the tendons mixed with each other,
there was an understanding
that all of the ash would be spread together,
that the escape of death is no escape at all,
not for a ship without any real sea.
Read me, devouring stream,
that tide will never be enough
& even with all of the rocks
I wear as decoration, my fit
can outlast your hip-deep pull.
When I return, if your height
has crested, then you can have
my coat, my pajamas, my shoes
& then, the rest of my paleness
can be used as an ornament
to warn of the fearless passersby
that never took the silt to heart.
Thin, feathery, the flag of water
can be seen from the orchard,
can be seen from behind the horse
& even without the lamps on we know
the flag is busy teasing the wrinkle
of blood that needs most to see
that the flag is still flying. Poverty
in our lungs, our hearts have filled
with knowing in the dark. Belief
in the streaks above, below the sky,
we have wrapped ourselves in tender
generations, that always harden
right before winter sends us to dip
our tongues in the shallows,
the nightly freshening of souls.
It’s poetic to say I am with the crop,
but the stalk provides no real comfort
& that is why we dream of women
& living near cool, understanding water.
About love, the scalloped curtain
of it, the lily is a flower unless you
walk all over it, temporary nature
of family when it is held tightly
by those with hands upon the vision
of the hearth only. That is all real,
but the loose hands, the lovely blue,
cooling figures, always restless
with good intent, always restless
with the principles of a straight limb
that always seems to be fruited,
they are prepared for any pace of wind.
Gloria, thunderhead of our close
rooting, this crowd is beautiful because
there is no unfeeling of real care.
For Chris Mink
Elbows too wide to be
anything more
than flailing bone tips,
the writer sits on soft
chairs, soft, understanding
pads willing to give,
to flex for an ass,
because those slipped keys,
even when pistol whipped
by cracked fingers, nails
bitten off,
are sometimes, brick,
unwilling to give up
their mortar
& beautiful, red dust.
It becomes a dark meshing,
our proximity to each other
& the cornered heaven
that is our want to love
each other more
than we love ourselves
rises to the origin of desire
to be destroyed
without knowing
about our own impending
destruction. Closer,
closer still, the not knowing
keeps my hands at welcome.
Darren C. Demaree is living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and daughter. He is the recipient of two Pushcart Prize nominations, and his first collection, “As We Refer To Our Bodies”, is forthcoming from 8th House Publishing House this fall.
ISSUE:
S P R I N G
2013
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