by Alex Lemon
as the rust-dulled axe, the go-there-
be-happy? On a beach
of violin skins we turned into lightning,
or didn’t, but smoked too fast,
attacking. Our chests tightened
with glee. Swaggering. Hip-tight
to the rough bark of perverted trees,
we shouted bloody, lips cowboy tall,
nick-winged & dusty.
I waited all day for you to tell me
that love is what I hate about myself.
Preface to Augury
In this place, beside a sigh of traffic,
Regretting nothing as it passes, there
Once was an endless trilling in a wood.
They say it, & saying it makes it so.
—Larry Levis
I. Cardinal
I saw you kissing
the black pearls
in your reflection’s eyes
& wanted to taste
the endless gift of a tire
filled with rainwater:
concentric circles
loosening themselves
from the throat-wrenching
grasp of the world.
Archimedic rhythm
that, when balanced,
turns you back
to red—a heart
bursting in flutter
above a chain-link fence.
Turned inside
out & pulsing
sugary—thick smoke
in summer air.
II. Oriole
After the storm,
the horsehair nest
you weaved lay frayed
on the bottom step
like a nail-filled sock.
For weeks, I crunched
the retort of fallen branches,
gathered newspapers
from towns hours away.
By the time I restaked
the vine’s bamboo poles,
the comb you’d stolen
from the bathroom window
was tucked in the tree’s V—
mother’s gray hairs
unfurled into the air
like a night photo
of fireworks.
Two days later
the comb shined new.
You disappeared into
the lassoed tornado,
hiding your plumage
in a privacy where anything
could happen: promises
of wheat fields smoking
like pyres, tomato plants
pecked in the fibrous dark.
What do you name in your
never-ending shade?
Which sacrifice is true loss?
Veiled, a song rattling
the knob-shouldered sumac.
Fork-lightning, fire; raw-throated
through the orchard’s cobalt day.
III. Magpie
Do you save
the best for last
like I do? Eyes
taken first, rib cage
scoured white.
The squirrel’s belly
must be tender
for you to pick
cruelly all day
with your dagger face.
Reminder of night’s
warm sidewalks,
you are a shadow
in pawnshop alleys.
Watching
from the stop sign,
morning legs
exclamation marks
against the rising sun.
You predict scars,
count soft parts
like a gambler
already spending
his winnings.
Surer than hell
he’ll taste the queen’s
sweaty kiss
after his double down.
Sophisticated
Spin with me, flamenco-style.
Here—a boutonniere weaved from tender split nails.
I am a three-winged angel, graceful with my fingertips.
My sound, the small particles of prophecy.
Do you believe and stay attached
to your small desires, old fruits,
or do you want to lie down?
It could be foam-white,
the I cannot remember room
or your eyes are white as the clown
fish’s belly. Here is the highway
to the lumpy bed, moldy
with floodwater, headboards
carved from church organs.
It is not necessary to sleep.
The shortcut is closed, laced steely with daytime.
I am here to help. Flares, a white flag.
Siphon gas from my lungs, spread my jelly and sing.
I am one fraction away.
One one-hundredth from what will make all the difference.
Below the Nearer Sky
The goldfish sprints, fantail
spread like fingers on fire.
It fast-forwards for days—
figure-eights a whirling fury
that spills. Spinning drunkenly,
everything is forgotten. It burns,
a lightning-struck barn.
Its silken flesh unfurls, ribs
shine like a whittled moon.
But skin knotted into ruin
can’t stop it: the staccato jazz
your fingernail flicks doesn’t help.
It will never quit, you think,
until the summer morning
it’s found belly-up in dirty water,
still as a town ravaged by storm.
The fishbowl shimmers dark and golden
as if, in your absence, the heavens
crawled in—packed star chunks
cellophane tight; waiting for you
to shake off your impossible dreams
and bow to that half-whole reflection.
Happy Fun Sex Movie
Night light rubbing & riffraff.
Singing waxed violence, sky sharp
as razors & fortuitous.
Nibble my nape. My snappiness.
I’ve been blue-foxed, led shackled
to solitary confinement in a field
planted with mimes. With darts.
They tickle my larynx.
Sickly with cracked lobes.
Is it selfish to want
the salted & tart?
Head table at the hello
party? Dip. Dab. Drip.
Cracked open, shell
a tumored morning. Gongs.
Leave the checkered neck.
Leave my selfishness.
Let the chokecherry paint,
let it sputter everyone righteous.
Babies sprout from the chili vine.
We are so beautiful in this eeldom.
Tumult
The kill, the tongue in my throat.
—Mary Wang
After these days dense
with whoops & catcalls,
blizzards of oystered glass
& whippoorwills barking out
oddness, I walk in my sleep.
A murder of intimacies worrying
my throat tarnished. Shackled
to slamming doors, I’ve given myself
wholly to the city’s ragtag
roughness. Dreams of exaltation
line power lines like shooting
decoys. Swabbed for electrocution.
They alternate intrusion.
They alternate blessings.
And each morning, the terrible
biography writes across the sky.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you thank you thank you to everyone at Macalester College and the creative writing program at the University of Minnesota—flowers and Band-Aids to all of my students, colleagues, and peers. Wang Ping, Diane Glancy, Ray Gonzalez, Rick Barot, David Hernandez, Lisa Glatt, Adam Clay, Casey Golden, Suzanne Rivecca, Matt Henriksen, Mark Conway, and Nick Flynn, thank you for the guidance, doom, and help.
I am also gratefu
l to the National Endowment for the Arts, the Minnesota State Arts Board, SASE/Jerome, Iowa Falls, and Dr. Roberto Heros, for supporting this life.
Forever: I am indebted to the beautiful people at Tin House. Thank you for believing in me, Brenda. Thank you for putting up with me, Meg.
Finally, I owe everything and more to my families (Lemon, McLoone, Dorlac, Garlock, Balizet, and Ariane & Catface) and friends. I love you all.
Copyright © 2006 by Alex Lemon
Introduction © 2006 by Mark Doty
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Tin House Books, 2601 NW Thurman St., Portland, OR 97210.
Published by Tin House Books, Portland, Oregon, and New York, New York Distributed to the trade by Publishers Group West, 1700 Fourth St., Berkeley, CA 94710, www.pgw.com
eISBN : 978-0-982-50301-0
First U.S. Edition 2006
www.tinhouse.com