November 17-24, 2013: Brendan Constantine and Cheryl A. Van Beek

This Grove

This grove belongs to the hills beyond
as they belong to the mountain & so
unto the next thing & the sky.

The bear in the bellboy’s cap is mine,
so is this book, this picture of a cloud
that holds the page. Everything else

I rescued. This coat I saved from
a washing line, the shirt & scarf
as well. But the shoes were hung

from a  sycamore which means
something worse than losing a shoe.
My bear watched the road

while I cut them down. Now’s the time
for taking shoes off, for grass
sounds in the grove, for the grass

to sweep my bear to sleep. I forget
to sing to him while he’s awake, so
I lift his hat & hum into that. I dream

that he dreams my songs, but I never
ask in the morning. Tomorrow we’ll walk
to the hills & ask them to give us

the grove. If they refuse we’ll appeal
to the mountain & so unto the next thing
& the sky, until we strike a deal.

My bear will get half, though he’ll stay
mine. Oh God, tired God, be honest;
you won’t miss the grass and its miles.

No One Spoke

for at least an hour. Maybe longer. It was longer.
No one spoke, looked away, or drew attention
with their hands. A few of us opened our mouths,
a few always do. We didn’t know we’d done it.
No one saw. Like losing a button. We were busy
not speaking. We had drinks, a few snacks, watched
TV with the sound off. A few of us thought about
the button, the one that says MUTE, how common
it is now. We tried to imagine it on other things,
things that don’t speak but are loud: lamps, guns,
a fire truck with MUTE painted on it. It would’ve
looked good on us, stenciled white across our chests.
We wore dark colors, earth tones. No one calls them
dirt tones or soil. It’s what we mean: mud, rot,
the heap of life. It’d be hard to sell clothes with
names like that. Hard to give them away. Maybe
if they were gifts. We’d all accept with a nod,
like we did when your picture came our way.

Launder your “some days”
wring out your plans
let every drop drip
dry.
Or tumble them in your head
that click clack banging sound,
like forgotten coins,
round and round
till they’re dead.
Reach for them
again.
Hold them against your skin.
Steal their heat,
then smooth their creases.
Fold them tightly edge to edge
pile them
on shelves,
or file them
in closets.

Jean Paul Sartre wrote,
“Hell is other people.”
You disagree.
Hell is you,
your dreams with no exit.