our house and its heart so savage

Joanna Klink, from The Nightfields

— NATASHA TRETHEWEY, “Myth.”

Mary Oliver, “To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song.” Blue Horses

End of description.]

The imagination, whole yet incomplete, feels its edges. Gestures from its windows as if into a city whose language no one speaks. A dilemma unresolvable, but mutual.

For Carl Morse When the call comes, be calm. Say to your wife, “My brother is dying. I have to fly to California.” try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver. Say to the young man sitting by your brother’s side, “I’m his brother.” Try not to be shocked when the young man says, “I’m his lover. Thanks for coming.” Listen to the doctor with a steel face on. Sign the necessary forms. Tell the doctor you will take care of everything. Wonder why doctors are so remote. Watch the lover’s eyes as they stare into your brother’s eyes as they stare into space. Wonder what they see there. Remember the time he was jealous and opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick. Forgive him out loud even if he can’t understand you. Realize the scar will be all that’s left of him. Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria say to the lover, “You’re an extremely good-looking young man.” Hear him say, “I never thought I was good enough looking to deserve your brother.” Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it means to be the lover of another man.” Hear him say, “Its just like a wife, only the commitment is deeper because the odds against you are so much greater.” Say nothing, but take his hand like a brother’s. Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might help him live longer. Explain what they are to the border guard. Fill with rage when he informs you, “You can’t bring those across.” Begin to grow loud. Feel the lover’s hand on your arm restraining you. See in the guard’s eye how much a man can hate another man. Say to the lover, “How can you stand it?” Hear him say, “You get used to it.” Think of one of your children getting used to another man’s hatred. Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her, “He hasn’t much time. I’ll be home soon.” Before you hang up say, “How could anyone’s commitment be deeper than a husband and a wife?” Hear her say, “Please. I don’t want to know all the details.” When he slips into an irrevocable coma, hold his lover in your arms while he sobs, no longer strong. Wonder how much longer you will be able to be strong. Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms whose arms are used to holding men. Offer God anything to bring your brother back. Know you have nothing God could possible want. Curse God, but do not abandon Him. Stare at the face of the funeral director when he tells you he will not embalm the body for fear of contamination. Let him see in your eyes how much a man can hate another man. Stand beside a casket covered in flowers, white flowers. Say, “thank you for coming,” to each of seven hundred men who file past in tears, some of them holding hands. Know that your brother’s life was not what you imagined. Overhear two mourners say, “I wonder who’ll be next?” and “I don’t care anymore, as long as it isn’t you.” Arrange to take an early flight home. His lover will drive you to the airport. When your flight is announced say, awkwardly, “If I can do anything, please let me know.” Do not flinch when he says, “Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him after he told you. He did.” Stop and let it soak in. Say, “He forgave me, or he knew himself?” “Both,” the lover will say, not knowing what else to do. Hold him like a brother while he kisses you on the cheek. Think that you haven’t been kissed by a man since your father died. Think, “This is no moment to be strong.” Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke your split eyebrow with a finger and think of your brother alive. Smile at the memory and think how your children will feel in your arms warm and friendly and without challenge.

Dalton Day, from Flood-Letting

“A full-service organization” by Bob Hicok I robbed a bank. Didn’t mean to. I’d deposited a check when the woman asked, Is there anything else? She had a great smile. It reminded me of a waxing moon. I didn’t want her to be a moon in vain, so I said, I’ll take all the money in your drawer. She said, Of course. Then she said a funny thing. Her head was down, she was looking at a stack of bills in her hand, when she said, How would you like that? Meaning tens or twenties. Hundreds or quarters. And as soon as she said this, she stopped, dropped her hands, smiled, looked at me, shook her head and said, Duh. And something opened between us. A sense of life as renewable and surprising, full of little errors that make us notice we need and can give help. There’s only one way to want everything, she knew that and was admitting her mistake. So I pointed out to her that I didn’t have a gun. She pointed out to me that money is a knife we plunge into each other over and over for no good reason. If I’d have had a cord of wood or even a few logs, I’d have built a fire right there and talked to her well into the night, but there was no tree in sight. At the end, having handed me the money, once more she asked, Is there anything else? Yes, I said. I’d like to deposit this. Checking or savings, she asked. Given how far we’d come together, I admitted I’ve never known how to answer that question, if it’s better to live for the moment or look forward to a better time. That’s why I’m here, she said, taking out a pencil and paper and dividing the paper into two columns, one labeled The Sky Is Falling, the other, So Am I. Boulevard Spring 2017

—Rosanna Warren, The Twelfth Day

this is not my favorite poem from Danez’s Smith’s “Homie” but it is a hell of a thing

From “The Spark” Brenda Hillman

kaveh akbar, from calling a wolf a wolf

Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness and, under our windows, the street-cleaners were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and everything was strange without being threatening, even the tea-kettle whistled differently than in the daytime: it was like the feeling you get sometimes in a country you’ve never visited before, when the bread doesn’t taste quite the same, the butter is a small adventure, and they put paprika on the table instead of pepper, except that there was nobody in this country except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.