A few new virginia poems

mike swanberg


Carry and smile, sort and sand.

No matter how much I wish it was so,
The two hundred year old plank
That I carried, and carefully stored
In my fathers garage is not my confusion,
Or even my joy.

And the blood drying inside of my work glove
Keeps its mouth shut about failed relationships,
And the approaching difficulties of summer.

Here, the day cracks its knuckles and moves slow.
It watches me sideways from its post
Where it has set in the leather chair
to split hairs on the cat,
And thumb through a rural Virginian magazine.

And I, with as much freedom as a potted plant
Carry and smile, sort and sand.
I mix half water half bleach
To get rid of years of stains

I scrub until my fingertips have faded
And then I take a break to watch my brother
Swing a golf club in the yard.

It’s the sound of it that pulls my eyes first.
The clean pop of the club making contact with ball
And then all eyes head upwards as if in prayer,
But really were just waiting to see
how far it goes.

The Cool lip

I have come to terms with the fact
That you wont ever show up here,
Soaked through your clothes
To tap on my window and apologize.

In truth, I might never see you again,
But that doesn’t remove your fingers
From my hair, or take your touch
Off the back of my neck while im driving

These secrets wont be uttered anywhere
But here: here still trapped in your
mouth, like your hate for your father,
He did it to you first, then the rest
Let you down.

You wear such big shoes im surprised
You don’t fall more often
Surprised you move with such elegance
Across the dance floor towards me

so that just when I think you will touch my hand
You are reaching for a glass of champagne
With raspberries floating in it.
you are saying to me
wait, but not really
and i am sneaking off to the bathroom
to pray, my knees on the tile
my head pressed firmly against
the cool lip of the sink


another lesson

When there is nothing to say to myself, I sleep.
And now that you have left me with my safe house
divided, but my body somehow still intact
I find myself sleeping more often .

What is there to say to the mirror who proclaims
Buddy you aint shit without her
How can I begin to tell the sight of her body
through that same glass where I now take my shower:
Where I sit huddled by the drain and swallow
large breaths of hot air and confusion
as often as I trace the grout snaking between the tile

When there is nothing left to hold onto
I walk down to the little creek and call someone.
I try to find ways to work the girl into conversations,

In truth im just rationing my sanity
Trying not to fall asleep as early tonite,
Trying very openly to suffer, and endure that very suffering
as though everything,
No matter how terrible,
Was a lesson I should be learning.