Qualia
by T. Birch

1.

A box. It sits alone (I
imagine this). It's red, though
it could be blue, black,
white or lavender, any color,
but I see red, pretend
it is vibrant red like a bright
lipstick, an outrageous sens-
ation of visual splendor, this
red glows with its happiness,
all in my head, of course.

2.

A forest in North Carolina,
tall pines bordering lot lines,
and under their limbs, the wild poison ivy

lurks without warning,
thick on the ground
where small white children play.
*
Other trees, ones loosely
imagined in dreams, deciduous trees
when they are bare in Winter snows,

and when they have their leaves in Spring
among the flowers with their riotous colors,

and in Fall, those same trees
with their riotous colors.

Even Summer trees with plain green leaves
that shine under the rainbows of sprinklers.

3.

There are, perhaps more than one

hand on skin stretched over ribs,
dry nipples firm, fingertips painting
those red aureoles

with that small, slender feeling
that doesn't last, doesn't stop -

or flowers, the orange/pink roses
unaware of the dawn, drifting

in a summer breeze
across a face, into the lungs
with a damp heat, its invisible steam
blended yellowish white

in the sunshine, the smell of dead roadside
raccoons, fresh tar, diesel fumes and the sweat
of orange-vested workmen under hard hats.

4.

They are seen passing
in the express lane. In the mirror

observe yourself, your hair
a gray so natural you feel older,

like that studious stare that peeks out at children,
when bed sheets whisper -

Why was he calling to you,
locked behind your car door, huddling
with the anxious coughing of children,
the incessant sound of those bells
ringing and ringing?

And again his fists banging -
banging against what - the car, you?

Later - - you see the garage
but not the car. You sweep at
cobwebs, leaves and fine grained dirt,

seek to reveal the smudges there.

5.

I wake up, find a box
at the store for my hair, knowing gray will
never be white.

Like the box I began with
colored red, or blue or whatever
color it was,

or the trees
that are green, whatever green is,
something else, beyond eye's sight. . .

Maybe a picture of blinding snow, or

other similar images
placed carefully, pigeon holed
in an intelligent brain wondering -
is the voice to which it grovels also intelligent?
Or is it (I imagine this) different?

6.

Angry at the body's pains, I am
unaware of anything, for a day,
for an hour, your sharp motions a blur . . .

I portray you as a rough angel
hovering over my calm exterior, my ears
filled with a chatter of nonsense
about the absence of love

I feel your face covering
an unexpected misery with accusations,
your eyes open as petals
after a rain.

7.

You watch his back
shaking under covers in the night, the talk
which then subsides.

As you receive
a new caress, hands on your face -

you smell his breath,
the odor so visceral, so unexpected,
your thoughts now blur, become disguised.

8.

Just off the path, bark peels off trees.
A hot sky cooled by their shade
spreads over grass and dark brown dirt.

Flesh frees itself,
against another's skin.

*

You give in, adopt a submissive posture -
alone and still. You want to believe.

Bitten and devoured a million times,
you are lost, in a hot and humid climate,

running from the mud wasps as they sting

to places far beyond the rain
they bring. A house exposed to sun

on every side. You wander in.

*

You are blue, you sing that shade's downbeats
late into the night.

Such sweet sounds. You sing them, these
sad, clever notes.

Poem copyright © T. Birch 2002. All rights reserved.

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