Brendan Constantine
Three Poems
poem, December 31st 2020
the year hangs on the back of a door
moves a little when we speak is also a pair of shoes
a bowl of blue apples the cord to some electric
thing coiled in a drawer
is a lampshade turned yellow turned to burn
a muddy turtle whose shell is God’s hand
cupped to one ear the year is finally quiet
finally melted at the bottom
of its pretty glass
of all the times to ask a question like this
is twelve buttons down the front coming
undone coming to bed
yes to everything whatever way you like
to be carried a handful of sugar or black ants
which are the same thing
has stopped moving to watch me work
watch me push the boat away from the jetty
and sit back with you already shipwrecked
already drowned still talking about the year
is a conversation for later
when the chairs are put back the orderlies huddled
in a driveway lifting their masks to smoke and
the smoke not fading not going anywhere
you can’t make me no one makes anyone
it’s all over but the overing
is tire tracks in snow a little bread left
not much is paralyzed from the waist up
one bell now two bells now three
is outside naked again and half awake
has learned to keep clothes in the car
Brink
Let it be the print of my pillow
on my cheek, a weight of leaves.
Let it be easy to pronounce. I go
from window to window, look
for hints in the sky or the birds,
the play of light. When a lull falls
over the street, I think, Let it be
this. Or rather, If this is it, I’m ready.
I’ve gotten good at savoring: salty
peanuts, the colors of night, how,
when I let my arms hang loose,
I can’t feel my fingers, can’t tell
how many there are. I know
a blind woman who says it isn’t
like closing your eyes, but like
closing only one. That absence.
That particular nothing. Let it be
glitter on my sleeve, or pollen,
a little alphabet soup. Linguists
say the only word common to every
language is Huh. And it always
means the same thing, a quandary,
means Who knew and I’ll be damned.
Let it be no bigger than that sound,
a mere breath of epiphany. One
you can utter in a cup, or cover
with another mouth. Let it prompt
kisses, missed buttons on a shirt,
a spider brought home on my shoe.
Captain Blood
This morning I woke without
my left arm. Somehow, I just
went with it and calmly searched
the blankets. I got on my knees,
dragged the bed from the wall,
then went through my clothes.
I must’ve had it last night;
I’d worn a shirt with buttons.
For some reason, I thought about
Prokofiev’s Cortege of the Sun
which ends with a musical
picture of dawn. It’s astounding
and always makes me cry or,
at least close my eyes. I had
a vision of my arm shining
like that, maybe floating. It was
cold so I threw on a coat, half
expecting to find it in the sleeve,
and went outside. Nothing there,
not in the garden or under
the cars. As I straightened,
I saw the woman from next
door, walking up my driveway.
She held out something long
and crooked. “Is this yours?”
she asked. I was embarrassed
and had formed the first word
of an excuse when I saw
she was holding a snake.
“No,” I answered, my face
suddenly warm. “No?”,
she pressed, “You’re sure?
But aren’t you a writer?”
“I try,” I said, “I’m just not
at that level.” I have no idea
what I meant by that. She
lifted the snake higher
and tried to meet eyes
with it. “Someone’s looking
for you, Satan. Yes, they
are! Yes, they are!” We
parted after this and I sat
at my computer, trying
to think of her name. Barbara
something. Something hard,
like a bookcase full of battles
at sea.
—Submitted on 01/04/2021
Brendan Constantine is the author of Bouncy Bounce (Blue Horse Press, 2018), Dementia, My Darling (Red Hen Press, 2016), and nine other books. His work has appeared in Poetry, Best American Poetry, Tin House, Poem-A-Day, Prairie Schooner, and other journals and anthologies. Constantine has received support and commissions from MOCA, the Getty Museum, James Irvine Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts. He teaches creative writing at the Windward School in Los Angeles and develops poetry workshops for people with aphasia.
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