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Robert Bohm |
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Already
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It was there, under her lids
a ransacked home, a broken menorah
on the floor. The grandpa, a violin bow
on his lap, sat against the wall
in the corner. Every night her eyes,
mice scurrying in and out of holes, watch
the ambiguous harden into fact. Returning
in the mornings, she steps out
from under eyelids and talks:
"Frau Joblanski, she told Tante Hannah
about a neighbor named Naomi
who always listened to the radio.”
When Naomi disappeared, something else did too.
Like a chemical froth on the Vistula's bank,
what Joblanski knew dirtied what it touched.
More majestic than silence, the eerie’s shadow
smoked a cigarette behind an old café.
It wasn’t winter then. Nor is it now. Already
the tulips are out, petals
gray with ash.
Does this mean
anything to you? |
| Presence |
Smell of burnt cricket torsos
everywhere.
The moon didn’t do it.
It was something else. An animal
that leaves charred things behind
when it disappears.
Yellow eyes near the tulip poplar.
The moon vanishes behind clouds.
The unknown moves. An October
breeze or something like it, love,
departs on small paws.
The animal stops, arches its back, and listens
to a distant twig crack. Its fur,
a soft burnt-sienna fire, brushes a fern leaf,
turns its edge black. This is where
night starts.
Love is either gone or not. This is definite, though:
the old box dug up behind the woodpile.
In it: a tiny skeleton, blue rattle, and pacifier.
An animal, the one with the fire-body, howls.
I dance, shake the rattle. |
| Copyright © Robert Bohm 2003. All
rights reserved. |
Robert Bohm is a poet. He was born in Queens, NY.
His work has appeared in a number of publications, both online and
print. |
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Kudos |
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Photo copyright © Jillian Ann. All rights reserved.
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