Tears Like Rain

Tears have been like rain enough—
Like diamonds, rivers, stars—
So much
That I can’t help
Question the pain
That made a poet say
Tears are Rain.

What was the trigger
That once produced
Rain?
What was the wrong that reduced
A wordsmith to rain?

My tears are bees,
stinging in my eyes;
They’re poison, scorching;
fire,
Burning;
Knives, carving.

My heart
Complains of tears
like water,
But it’s wrong.
I've learned
Eyes are subtle volcanoes
Waiting,
dormant,
beside the nose;
Tears are magma,
flowing,
flaring;
That while eyes tear,
They’re tearing
Down your cheeks—
with pain begot
from pain.

I think, though,
I forgot those
Tears that are
“like rain.”
Sometimes,
they are the same,
But rather rain is more like crying:
Our pain is fluid;
our happy, dying;
Yet through the sad,
I think—I know—
That when they’re gone,
I grow.

Drunk Thoughts On Love On A Winter Night

I’d just pounded back

A double and coke

When you asked me how I felt about love.

I was uncomfortably tipsy;

You were already drunk—

You spoke with a slur—

And weighed against me on the couch.

I poured another drink

When you asked me again,

But I couldn’t answer just there and then,

Because I didn’t know.

I didn’t know then

How I felt about love

Or even if I felt Love.

I didn’t know love until many years later—

You asked me once again

In memory how I felt

But I still couldn’t answer

Because you’re no longer here.

I remember that night, though,

At my now-ex-boyfriend’s party

In his slummy urban shack.

We spent the night

Losing ourselves to the night’s ice grace.

Remember when the snow fell

So hard on the tarmac

We moved inside from the fire

We’d set in the rusty trash can?

Remember that busted couch

Where we first traded names?

You laughed at mine for being

Too old for a younger guy.

I remember.

I remember you thought

You were too old for a younger guy like me—

I said I didn’t think

You were.

How did I feel about love

That first night?

I wondered then if I was too young.

I was in school, after all,

And there was distance

In both space and mind.

But maybe I was making excuses.

With your warmth beside me

The warmth of rum inside me,

We dozed and slumped together,

Your gelled hair crunched in my hands.

You fell asleep and left me

Alone

To think,

To feel,

And wonder

Whether love is real,

Whether what I felt was love,

And whether that was true.

Ask The Dog

Ask the dog what he thinks

Of running, panting, chasing

His tail, day and night.

Ask what he thinks

Of bones, cats, you, me.

He’ll never tell.

He may cock his head

Or bark, maybe growl.

When you say “speak”

He will, but only because

You trained him to do so.

The truth is he doesn’t think,

He just does, like you, like me,

Like we, too, are trained to do.

Missing Piece

You know this point?

Suddenly cognizant—

Aware of the entire

Nothing you know.

Indefinity—of being

Forever (maybe).

You lack assurance,

You hope, eternal;

A puzzle, missing a piece—

Of love, longed for

Always uncertain,

Never forgotten;

Of death, finality

Striking randomly;

That image, incomplete.

Indefinity—(indefinite-infinity),

In defined, finite terms,

Means you will

Forever never know

You’ll never know, forever.

So maybe we’ll never know

What we’ll maybe never know?

Maybe you will never know

My point, know you’ll never know…

That’s the point, after all.

I’m wasting time, working

A jigsaw set, keeping busy;

By the time you and I

Put the pieces together,

There’s nothing left.

Starfish

Members of the class Asteroidea—

Starfish—have no centralized

Brain. Instead, their bodies contain

Complex distributed nervous systems

Which connect to tube feet,

Sense light, touch, temperature

Water status—orientation.

It takes months—even years—

For a starfish to regenerate

Dismembered limbs, but it

Can be patiently achieved.

Starfish have no tear ducts.

When washed onto shore

Beside plastic bottles and trash,

On a beach like a cosmic vacuum,

They cannot cry, and when they

Are stepped on or broken, they

Cannot cry, and when you toss

Them back into the ocean

They would cry if they could,

But they cannot—even if they’re

Grateful, they are only tearless.

Blackout

I couldn’t tell you what it feels like

Because it feels like nothing;

Like a gap, a dip, a cavern;

An expansive hole you’d toss

Rocks down, just to hear them fall.

But they never really fall, rocks;

Not in this hole. No blackout

Reminds me of the one before,

And the pebbles, like memory,

Are lost each time, forever.

I try to think back to before—

Remember what it was like—

Mom says we used to fish.

Together. Can you believe that?

I remember once standing,

Waiting for you to come home

From work. You passed me by

Without a glance. I don’t remember

Fishing, though. I don’t remember

Ever going fishing with you.

That’s what dads do, isn’t it?

You take your son fishing.

You take him to a lake or stream

Show him to cast a line and reel

Slow, then fast. The doctor used

An analogy; said I should cast

Into the pit, and try to reel memories

Close. Like a fish. The doctor

Took me fishing, Dad. Are you sure

You took me with you?

I try. I really do, Dad. Since that

First blackout onward, I try to fake it

At least. I half-imagine your boots

Filling with water when you stand

In the stream, casting line overhead.

But there was no stream and you

Hate fishing. You told me so yourself.

Did I misremember this, or the other?

It’s so hard to tell, since you left,

And Mom is the only one who can say.

I really wish you had stayed.

Mom would’ve liked that so much,

Even if we didn’t go fishing.

I’ve been trying, Dad, to recall;

I see denim overalls and a mountain-

Man beard and maybe I can smell

Wood smoke. No way to tell

If these are real memories

Or memories I’ve reeled

From someone else’s stream.

The hole is deep, Dad. It’s not

Something I expect you to fill—

Not that I think you could.

It’s hard to fish with a broken son,

I hear. I wish you had stayed, but

Since you didn’t, I’ll just fish alone.

I don’t expect you to return.

I’ll cast my line in the pit to fish.

Maybe I’ll drop a penny wish

Down the well—if I remember.

The Patchwork Tallit

It hangs there

Franken-stitched together—

Woolen squares,

Meaning lost on me.

This tallit—heirloom

Crafted by Bubbe

Generations ago—

Draped forlorn

Overlooked, undusted

Throughout my kinderjohren.

Abba says his Oma

Made it for Saba’s wedding

Before Kristallnacht.

What is it to me, though?

The tzitzits are there—

All four intact.

When Saba died,

He was not buried.

I never met him.

Abba named me

For him. I’d like to know

My name, like I’d like

To know the man

To whom my tallit

Once belonged,

But we don’t even

Have his ashes

To remember.

Abba says it was hard—

Finding fabric, I mean.

Bubbe was poor,

She had the shakes.

Saba was engaged

To a gentile woman,

But they were happy,

So Bubbe tore apart

Sweaters and coats

To make her patchwork

Tallit. The threads now

Are coming undone

From years of neglect

In a box marked Z”l.

It is itchy, much

Like the sweaters

From which it was

Created. Am I like

He from whom I was

Created? In his image?

The tallit—worn during

Shacharit and through

Yom Kippur—is worn

And faded. It is mostly

White and grey with

Blue stripes, and by

The tzitzits—right there—

There’s a stray string.

The loose thread

Asks me to pull.

Help me dissemble—
Go ahead. Take me apart.

But if I do, what remains

Save worthless thread

And squares whose meaning

Are obscured by history?

I’d like to know my tallit’s

Past like I’d like to know

My Saba. I’d like to know

Why Abba named me—

Out of respect? Love?

Or is it expectation?

I, like Saba, am engaged

To a gentile. Like the man

For whom I was named,

I am endowed this Tallit.

Like him, I take my vows;

I will sign my ketubah,

Break glass,

Hear “Mazel tov!”

Beneath the chuppah.

Do I know Saba? No.

But we are close.

I hear him tell me stories

Through the patchwork tallit

Zichrono Livracha.

Afternoon Tea

I try to remember my friend Raahil

As he was before the war broke out—

When our parents said we shouldn’t

Be friends anymore. We used to meet

After school and drink tea like British

Men and laugh and make fun while

Secretly hating the stuff his Mom

Fixed for a snack. We used to meet

On winter weekends and he’d talk about

Muhammad, and I about Jesus, while

Secretly hating the way our parents

Made us believe. We used to meet

To play but our parents made us stop.

I wonder if he is okay, and if he still

Secretly hates the way, as do I, our

Families loved us.

Lust

I recall, sleepless, the hours spent

After the rush that night, when

We were both caught up with

Each others scent and heat.

We had drinks at Club Frey,

And after, in your room,

And every time the music

Stopped in either place, we

Smiled and laughed—I remember

Your teeth, recently bleached,

When you smiled—I remember

The breeze of air that hit us

When you opened the door—

Do you remember the way

You shivered, the same way

I do? Do you remember what

You wore that night?—the green

And blue dress I said looked

Funny afterward, but we both

Agreed was nice on you—Do you

Remember tripping onto the bed,

While your blue-green dress slid

Off the edge?—I kissed your head

Before I left you sleeping, and left

My number beside your purse—

But every night you never called

Left me awake, wishing I stayed

One extra night, and I still

Regret ever meeting you for that.

Lunch

I try to forget about Maryam

And that time I mistakenly walked

In on her while she stepped out

Of the shower and grabbed her

Hijab in fright. I think of Ramadan

Instead, in August two years back,

When Raahil invited me for Hilal.

I thought it was a celebration—

His parents laughed when I asked

When we would eat. I did not know

What I now know—that some fast

For holy rites—but they explained

Spiritual hunger and how to feed it;

While they spoke, I hoped Maryam

Would not tell them that I saw her.

We gathered when the crescent

Moon rose, and my stomach growled,

Hungry for something I did not know.

Elevenses

I try to write down things

I hear when I walk around.

Did you know you can have

A heart-attack from shoveling snow?

There is a punk version of Hamlet.

Karaoke comes from two words

In Japanese, the first meaning empty,

The second meaning orchestra.

Elephants have four knees.

The average male eats about

Thirty-five thousand cookies.

Whiskey is not the same as whisky,

And only the Scots know the difference.

Also, 4% of barreled whiskey evaporates

Before it is bottled and taxed more

Than an average American is taxed.

My neighbor eats cookies with whiskey.

I have never seen an elephant,

But I have seen Hamlet.

I keep my singing in the shower.

I shovel snow.

I avoid cookies.

Second Breakfast

I try to think of little things,

Like mice, and minnows, and

The microscopic line that separates

Me from "the edge." Like a tightrope

Trod by a hobbit, suddenly conscious

Of his seven meals a day, his weight

Gain, and the way his girth weighs

High on the balance, tilting neither

One way nor the other, I am misbalanced

All the same by a gravity greater than

My own—but what I think about

The little things, like me, like him,

Is that anxiety is consumptive.

It pulls us in, tight, packed, and as it

Does us, we do as well to others.

Wrath

A memory: You raised your acid-venom

Voice saying you could not stand us. Our house

Is too small. We are cramped. You,
Screaming, left me solitary

In our merciless prison—your prison—

My home. Left only the rage in my

Head, unrelenting, passionate—

Telling me to chase; telling

Me that I should strike back, that

I did not deserve this. You

Must learn suffering—must

Learn what I must now learn: that

Patience is a virtue for the violent.

Breakfast

I try to remember why—

In Old English—morgenmete

Was the morning meal,

Not breakfast, like now,

Which breaks the period

After a night’s fast.

My mind wanders far

To think East, where

The poor in Burma eat

Fried rice with peas,

Served with green tea;

China’s breakfast includes

Noodles, soups, dim sum;

Japan has miso and nori;

But still back here there’s

Waffles and pancakes,

Sausage, eggs, biscuits;

And back in my mind, here—

My body, my temple—nothing.

Breathless Spring

Like a snowed yellow pale,
Spring pollen covers yards,
Homes; sticks like dust
The way neglect
Covers a mantelpiece
Or forgotten knick-knack.
But unlike snow,
Pollen doesn’t melt.
It lingers, instead—
Lets you breathe it in
So you can’t breathe—
Chokes you in meetings,
At dinner, everywhere.
Everywhere, people sneeze.
Cough. Sniffle. Snort.
Sneeze again, sounding
Like a shotgun
Blast ringing and echoing.
It kicks, repeats, and when
You hold up a tissue
Like a white flag to surrender,
The pollen makes you
Blow your brains out,
Right out through your nose,
In between your eyes.

"Bird Wood 5" by Matt Lively

An ekphrastic poem based on this.

A single plain wooden panel—
Cut seven inch by seven inch—
On which a bird stands without legs.
Why don’t you have legs little bird?
Why, someone has given you shoes,
Red, with heels, and they are there too,
But still you stand without your legs.
You have drawn wings, but cannot fly.
Your tree branch is not made of wood,
But oil and tar on panel—are you
The fifth of your kind? You don’t
Have legs, but still you stand.
I can see it in your eyes, bird—
That desire to fly, you see
It’s also mine: if you can stand
Without legs can I then fly,
Even though I don’t have wings
To beat? Do I need red heels, as well?
I think you’re trapped, little bird,
On that hunk of lifeless wood,
Like I am painted—skin and
Blood on bone, going nowhere.

Empathy For the Hungry Stray

It’s hard to be certain
When one’s arm is bitten
Whether the maxillary arcade hits
Bone first, or if it is the mandibular
That lacerates deep

Against one’s radius
Through punctured skin.
For a moment, the foaming,
Sanguine clamp of incisors
Against soft flesh fascinates,

But as the canines seize
Skin—tear through red layers
Of muscle—one screams;
When premolars rip
Away bleeding tissue,

One notes the saw of enamel
On ulna, and—jaw-locked—
The dog vociferates;
Were the arm not shredding,
One might wonder

At the hound’s pain and reason,
But instead one would drive
An ill-tempered foot hard
Into a soft, empty belly
Of an unpedigreed bitch.

There Was, Until I Couldn't

There was a time, long before you were born,

Back when I—like you—was only a child

And I spent the days learning the limits

Of my body, pushed boundaries by climbing

Trees, swimming rivers, and holding my breath

Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time, before you were born

That I still questioned myself, still

Tried, even though I knew I shouldn’t,

To do the impossible—to fly, fall,

Jump, and sprint far, far and further

Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time, not long before you were born

Where I worried about having a child,

Worried that if I did, my limits

Would drive me to the point of climbing

High and jumping, or gulping for breath

Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time when you were born,

Love of my love, where you were still

And silent and I knew I shouldn’t

Breathe a word so you could fall

So far asleep—so deeper, further,

Until you couldn’t anymore.

There was a time after you were born,

My daughter, when although you were a child,

I knew you knew of love and its limits;

But your fever never broke—it kept climbing

While you fought for that final breath

Until you couldn’t anymore.

Now is the time, long after you were born,

That I recall, and force myself to sit still

To prevent doing what I know I shouldn’t;

The time when all the heavens fall

And with them, me, so far, yet further

Until I cannot anymore.

That Sense of Loneliness

I felt a sense of loneliness,

Of loneliness and what was lost,

Of what was lost and what I found:

That sense of loneliness.

And at the cost of what was lost—

Of what was lost and never found—

I gained a sense of feeling past

That sense of loneliness.

And with that gain I wish I’d found

I’d lost more than I had,

Though when I had it, wish I’d lost

That sense of loneliness.

And if I lost it yet again,

And yet again I lost it all,

Then yet again I’d find that sense—

That sense of loneliness.

But knowing that I could not lose

That feeling that I’d found,

I took some solace that I felt

That sense of loneliness.

Watching Leaves

They say to watch the leaves and they will fall,

And as they fall the rake keeps them at bay;

But give it time—the darkness takes us all

And when it takes us away, they will say

It takes some time to wait through night all night,

And every day we wait, and wait, and hope,

And when we wake and hope we fight and fight,

And when we fight and lose, we learn to cope

With fragile dreams and count the leaves and watch

Leaves fall and fall, and cover dying grass

Which dies from frost, and fragile life is lost

To seasons, time, and love that love lost last.