A Boat Made of Water
I’m not sure what I said standing in that lost decade’s doorway looking out at the train headed for San Francisco the rain cutting through the sparks lighting up the bay the sage brush torn out of the today’s news the crumbling cutouts of palm trees pomegranate trees I don’t want to forget what it’s like to die of a broken back broken life broken promises so much for last night’s handouts waiting for who’s next no more guns he said and wept her voice breaking over him and all those hunched in snow huddled around trash fires warming their hands barely able to hold the secrets I can never admit too many would be hurt by what I’ve become the falling sky and always the cold months dropping around me like the mystery itself like the dreams of the dead becoming alive or the scorched shadows limping across the warehouse floor the nightmare scenes sprayed across the leaning wall I can’t forget forgive me for hiding out in the junked Chrysler on blocks in the back yard spiders that never stop building their nests in the brittle hair of dolls and burnt skin help us help us she said why don’t you you’ve got nothing better to do that’s it then another funeral song that says goodbye good luck see you sometime the story of the crooked man the story nobody wanted to hear the story you carry in both hands your hopes piled on the street’s altar wild flowers bright as the summer field you once believed in cluster bombs at your finger tips James back from the war holding his three month old daughter Leslie over the swollen Skagit river to baptize her to cleanse her or set her adrift in a boat made of water wanting to watch her wave like a goddess from the other shore then turning away to lie against a cottonwood cradling her against his chest smiling at what might happen both of them sleeping now whatever it was that taught him just out of reach Katie singing dream a little dream and tell me you’ll miss me it’s the bartender ready to throw me out the third time this week ready to give in to whatever’s left it tastes I can’t resist tastes good god I want more to take me in like the river promised what I made up as beautiful as the loss of feeling as beautiful as we were beautiful
—Submitted on 09/25/2022
The poems of Thomas Brush first appeared in Poetry Northwest in 1970. He has received creative writing grants from the NEA, Washington State Arts Commission, and Artist Trust. His most recently books, from Lynx House Press, are God’s Laughter (2018), Open Heart (2015), and Last Night, winner of the Blue Lynx Prize (2012).
Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left.