It’s Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die by Hanif Abdurraqib

It’s Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die

 

Everyone wants to write about god

but no one wants to imagine their god

 

as the finger trembling inside a grenade

pin’s ring or the red vine of blood coughed into a child’s palm

 

while they cradle the head of a dying parent.

Few things are more dangerous than a man

 

who is capable of dividing himself into several men,

each of them with a unique river of desire

 

on their tongues. It is also magic to pray for a daughter

and find yourself with an endless march of boys

 

who all have the smile of a motherfucker who wronged you

and never apologized. No one wants to imagine their god

 

as the knuckles cracking on a father watching their son

picking a good switch from the tree and certainly

 

no one wants to imagine their god as the tree.

Enough with the foolishness of hope and how it bruises

 

the walls of a home where two people sit, stubbornly in love

with the idea of staying. If one must pray, I imagine

 

it is most worthwhile to pray towards endings.

The only difference between sunsets and funerals

 

is whether or not a town mistakes the howls

of a crying woman for madness.

Holding On by Brenda Hillman

Holding On

 

—So, one by one I pull the lice from your red hair.

One by one I try to split them with my fingernails;

 

no use, they hold on

as they were taught to. Still, they glisten

like heavenly sparks in the morning light

of the bathroom.

 

I have to pull extra hard on many of them,

use the turquoise, fine-toothed comb

provided by the pharmacy.

They hold on with all their strength:

each has its individual hair to love,

each pus-colored creature

has a genius plan for not leaving you.

 

I fling the lice out in the air,

thinking how the world despises them,

the other mothers of Berkeley,

and the teachers who have not appreciated their beauty.

 

And though I’ve had to poison them again,

I’ve always understood them,

I also wanted to get that close,

wanted to cling to you in just that manner,

even go back to heaven with you so we won’t

have to address this problem of the separate

you-and-me,

of outer and inner.

 

I hope we will have our same bodies there

and the lice will have their same bodies,

that each hopeful tear-shaped egg

will be allowed to cling forever, not be pulled

between love’s destiny

and a lesser freedom—

The Carrying by Ada Limón

The Carrying

The sky’s white with November’s teeth,

and the air is ash and woodsmoke.

A flush of color from the dying tree,

a cargo train speeding through, and there,

that’s me, standing in the wintering

grass watching the dog suffer the cold

leaves. I’m not large from this distance,

just a fence post, a hedge of holly.

Wider still, beyond the rumble of overpass,

mares look for what’s left of green

in the pasture, a few weanlings kick

out, and theirs is the same sky, white

like a calm flag of surrender pulled taut.

A few farms over, there’s our mare,

her belly barrel-round with foal, or idea

of foal. It’s Kentucky, late fall, and any

mare worth her salt is carrying the next

potential stake’s winner. Ours, her coat

thicker with the season’s muck, leans against

the black fence and this image is heavy

within me. How my own body, empty,

clean of secrets, knows how to carry her,

knows we were all meant for something.

The Great Poet Returns by Mark Strand

The Great Poet Returns 

When the light poured down through a hole in the clouds,

We knew the great poet was going to show. And he did.

A limousine with all-white tires and stained-glass windows

Dropped him off. And then, with a clear and soundless fluency,

He strode into the hall. There was a hush. His wings were big.

The cut of his suit, the width of his tie, were out of date.

When he spoke, the air seemed whitened by imagined cries.

The worm of desire bore into the heart of everyone there.

There were tears in their eyes. The great one was better than ever.

“No need to rush,” he said at the close of the reading, “the end

Of the world is only the end of the world as you know it.”

How like him, everyone thought. Then he was gone.

And the world was a blank. It was cold and the air was still.

Tell me, you people out there, what is poetry anyway?

                        Can anyone die without even a little? 

A Renewal by James Merrill

A Renewal

Having used every subterfuge

To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion,

Now I see no way but a clean break.

I add that I am willing to bear the guilt.

You nod assent. Autumn turns windy, huge,

A clear vase of dry leaves vibrating on and on.

We sit, watching. When I next speak

Love buries itself in me, up to the hilt.