Eileen Malone
(USA)
WHEN HE GOES SO DEEP
She shows him how to throw down enough frozen peas
for the stoplight parrotfish and yellowtail snappers
to swim between his legs and nibble
when he goes too far she pulls him inland
wants him to walk heavily, steadfastly
afraid of the ledge
but he likes the overhanging face of rock
walks to it dangling one foot over the abyss
likes the rush of adrenaline when he almost falls
loves to catch himself at the very last second
feels alive, feels light, wants one day to drop
from the coral-cliff edge to the bottom
where lobsters crawl in and out of small holes
to the bluing rhythm of giant sea turtle shadows
wants to go where the green moray eel goes
remain still and quiet when the big stingray
slides straight to and over his face
and slurps through his hair in its squid search
he wants to let himself go until he thinks he is drowning
but isn’t
she has told him how the mystic swims
in the same waters in which the psychotic drowns
but he knows more, knows that when he can reach the eel
it will offer itself like a rescue rope
she doesn’t tell him the rest, how she will either die or go mad
when he goes so deep, deeper than deep, enough
until he can see it is not an eel, nor a rope
offered by her to reel him back up, but a hand
hanging weightless in the warm water
there for him to do whatever he asks, a hand
that eventually he will recognize
as his own.
HOMECOMING HUG
I jump, collide with you and you
lean into me like a ski jumper
stomach to stomach, heart to heart
holding, slightly rocking side to side
like people in Chagall paintings
floating just off the ground
toes pointing in odd directions
we soar free of ties and ropes
lift through ourselves balloon light
a bottomless green-blackness tingles
in the upper air; the empty sky
flies into pieces, the present moment
ten thousand white crowned sparrows
trees collect wings, the gull beaks
of unopened magnolia strain upward
as if pulled by strings, leaves
become promises of us, together again
promises that send us reeling apart
drunk, deaf, breathless
trembling as if we had just been fighting
we turn from each other
hold hands, take a step forward
and the world is made flat
once again.
NIGHT SLIPS
Night slips from the skies
drowned and drowning
in wet stars to be felt
like rain to be touched
when you are here, with me
all of you is never really here
and when you are gone
you are almost gone
as though in the moment
that drilled and damaged
the one just before this one
you died
night rain becomes snow
you are closer, closer
a caught flake melts
in the palm of my hand
I feel what once was
a crushed amber moon
fights to rise from the grove
its quick flame, turned up to gold
lets me suddenly see
whirlwinds, essences of white atoms
–the dark.
RINGING AIR
You believe me whenever I say
I like the whole verandah to myself
tell you to go with your friends
and you leave me merrily, bare-legged
summery, athletically, waving arms
of sunburn and freckles
it gets late, I light the fire, keep watch
from an empty house on an empty hill
can’t stop examining your leaving
don’t be ridiculous the shape of it says
in the valley the deep-toned clock tower
bells and peals the hour, it’s always a surprise
the way the hurt of your absence strikes
I slide the screens wide open to the ringing air
the thorny wood smoke that floats down
from my dark twilight chimney
the welcome to the very pain I seek to avoid
there is a new ringing in the background
a signal from another place, a phone ring
long, short, long, a brief quiet, then a beep
I want it to be your voice saying soon
you will return soon, it isn’t
there’s nothing left for me but to fall
on the screened-in porch mattress
cup my hands to my ears, twist, buckle
my body away from the puncture pain
of my private, on-demand, personal tinnitus.
ACROSS THE WHARF WITHOUT PURPOSE
I refuse to lunch at that simple little unnamed three-table place
identified only by an « elf service » sign; the « s » has fallen away
no one has bothered to put it back, instead I pluck a can of beer
from mounds of manufactured snow while you buy fifty cents worth
of seal food to toss at the sea lions that bark and splash in the oily water
I don’t want to do what you want to do anymore, won’t compromise
feel guilty, selfish, don’t care, care, offer to share the beer in an act of giving
toss my own pennies when the organ grinder’s monkey begs for coins
but the enthusiasm keeps leaving me, it evaporates there on the wharf
into the glistening cold sea-air, even the monkey retreats from my deficiency,
won’t even reward my donation with a peck on the cheek, but you do
oblivious to the sense of something falling away, the inability to put it back
I am less than I was before, squid and red snappers stare openmouthed
as if startled at the sight of me and the initiative that flees from me
I become sentimental, want to treat you with unusual gentleness
we buy walk-away crab cocktails, sit on a bench of worn planks
attached lovers crazily and drunkenly pass like we used to
you think we still do, but the « s » has fallen from the self, I am elf
serving up the last scrapings of affection, no sense in telling you it’s gone
suddenly, having lost it, more than willing now to deem it fondness
the sky fades to gray, the sea creases into a sheet of aluminum
we watch tourists emerge like noisy frogs after the rain
they migrate comfortably across the wharf without purpose
we continue to sit, list together and apart, shift, shudder, grow slack
I politely let you take my hand and as the afternoon begins to fracture
a banshee takes up silent keening at the final loss of her long dying elf.
____________________________________________
Eileen Malone’s poetry has been published in over 500 literary journals and anthologies, three of which have been nominated for Pushcarts. Her award winning collection Letters with Taloned Claws was published by Poets Corner Press (Sacramento) and more recently, her book of poetry I Should Have Given Them Water was published by Ragged Sky Press (Princeton). She founded and directs the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition and is a voting member for the Northern California Book Reviewers Awards. As a mental health activist she serves on the Advisory Committee for Caminar. She lives in the coastal fog at the edge of the San Francisco Bay Area where she taught for the California Poetry in the Schools Program and for local community colleges.
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