Standing at such remove
Fixed (or moving) Standing
at such remove and from its hover the bird dives deep breaks
surface of the water the depths
of its hunger.
In a magazine in a waiting room I saw a photo
of home. Some kids were driving
through the desert and spotted
something on the scorched horizon. A television.
We saw it. A missile
hit a school (mostly children) and all talk was of how missiles
don’t hit schools the living screamed
out the back of our minds for their dead.
We turned it off, locked
the doors and fucked not to
stand at such remove.
If it would
a convenience store it would
all the time: there off the freeway and kept
by those we forget,
and outlive. Night
would have meant another fluorescent bulb there’s
no point here nothing
To champion or condemn we
could have gone in
goodbye Robert Creeley, and thanks.
God is good.
The ground is so saturated
here the roots come loose,
a tree falls into their bedroom
and the couple on the news swears he’s the only thing
that saved them. Empathy
wakes us from the comfort of our atheism: I’m happy they’re alive.
I’m writing to tell you I’ve
discarded all gods but yours, ours.
All shades not present at the creation
when you shaved a candle onto the open phone book and left
me to read there in the sun, all artifacts
without this pulse are dust. Nothing
but what holds us through this distance, your voice
on the phone in a motel parking lot in the middle of the night
before I hang up and go inside, listen half-awake
to a man
on a velvet stage
for all to know what God is.
I see you
as if through that classical veil, layed
by whatever illness or injury keeps
me poised on the edge
A rodeo clown can stand, transfixed
at the edge of bullshit
or can go on
averting the beast that would gore.
I give you this—
and in our weakness make
A stone, a carcass, a chisel, a knife:
We’ve carved so
and left carcasses as witness of our joys.
Thankful it’s not worse, that chiseled
in stone the names of our own, our victims
and a monument too imposing to chisel out
It’s happening again
this war in which they’ve used no napalm,
no carpet bombing of a land whose destruction
is the first and last we’ll ever hear
of it’s ever having lived. Again, thankful
for our hatred of these lies.
They say we’ve failed to give solutions.
They say we’re desperate to cohere.
Let’s chisel out a meal together from the breast of a dead bird
and carve our thanks in stone.
Andrew Baron studied at
Andrew Baron estudió en la Universidad de Salamanca y en la Universidad de Utah, de donde recibió un Bachelor of Arts en Lenguas Románticas. Sus traducciones ingleses de poesía en francés, italiano y castellano aparecen en All Echoes and Shadows: A Selection of Poetry in Translation. Baron trabaja