Tell No One Where You've Been

Sometimes I’ll stand on top of a manhole in the street,
remain perfectly still, and feel the pull of gravity on all my limbs.
The world that lurks below my feet reigns me in
until I burn to see what the concrete hides from me.
What sort of feasts lie underground that I’ll never taste?
There’s a galaxy down there, they say.
And if you’re perfectly silent, you can hear the moan of saxophones
and the jovial clink of glasses emanate from below.
I once heard an old man speak of how he stumbled upon it
as he was rushing from work, late to get home to his wife
the wind biting at his chilled face and pressed suit
and in his hurry, did not notice the manhole cover
askew to the side of the gaping hole that lead below.
He took a sharp turn, slipped, his red bowtie shed from his throat
from the quickness of the fall, yelling so much
he nearly swallowed his own voice, until he landed softly in a candlelit room
filled with small round tables and the walls lined with bottles
of red, blue, green, gold, purple, magenta
the light catching the liquid inside and sending colors dancing
across the vacant room’s walls like playful pixies.
People then flooded into the room, chattering and laughing
and platters of cold, ripe apples were placed on each table
“Eat, eat,” they told him, and so he did.
His teeth pierced the apple’s red skin as it bled juice
and its sweetness was the purest thing he’d ever tasted.
They poured him drinks of every color and size
and saxophones, hundreds of them, echoed amidst their speech
until their voices sounded like them,
and everything was music.
After the bottles were emptied and apple cores strewn everywhere
the people, thick with the night, began to wave goodbye and exit
and like a geyser erupted below his feet, he was propelled in the air
and thrown back above ground, flung onto the city streets like discarded litter.
Panting, he ran back, but the manhole was sealed over the opening
forbidding him entry. Beside him, glittering red like the apples,
a sharp contrast to the grey of the sidewalk, lay his bowtie.
He picked it up, a memento of his journey, and walked home.
Nobody believed him. His wife thought him crazy,
and sent him off to bed. But there are nights I know he was right,
for I am overwhelmed with the hushed whispering of life below me,
and drop to my knees, trying to pry the manhole loose,
desperate for just one taste.





- LAP etc.

Ribs

When my arms are down,
you can’t really see them.
There’s not enough tension, there’s too many layers to sift through.
But when I reach up towards the sky,
they rise to the surface of my skin like long fingers,
one, two three, four, pressing against the membrane that contains them.
They’re ready to break through my skin and gasp for air,
release from the prison of my fleshy torso.
They keep me strong, I’m fearless so long as they exist
to hold me up, rigid and unyielding.
Sometimes I’ll raise one hand up, elongate myself
and with the other hand, trace them
and push them, test their density. I tap them like piano keys,
the sound is slightly musical, but mostly hollow.
I feel each tiny thud echo in my spine, until I’m just
one big cavern of sound, rattling like a maraca,
or a shopping cart with a broken wheel.
Sometimes I wish they were profound enough
to hold onto, grasp like a banister,
hang ornaments from, a breathing Christmas tree.
I need them, more than they know. They are the silent
guardians whose presence makes me possible.
They defend the delicate life that lurks within:
the meaty, moist, throbbing tissue – so vulnerable and helpless –
now safe within the vibrating bones, beating to their melody.
I am safe from the probing forces around me,
all the jabs and gestures, the slander and slurs
cannot get past my iron barrier, those sturdy ridges.
For inside them beats my caged heart, secure, untouchable,
living serenely in the comfort
of its own white picket fence.




- LAP etc.