Kelan Nee

Digging

In the ditch most things make sense: the water

filling the soil falling. A logic only holes have:

The twopart process of gluing pvc: a primer

& adhesive. Both’ll get you high

if you breathe hard enough. After, when the waters

put back where you wanted it and the soils giving way

to what collected you can let your feet dry out

in the hot air. You remember the feeling of being

a flywheel flying, freed for a moment from the fear,

given for a moment the lie. Keep digging:

Look at me down there knees worn through

my arms working, a deadness

I lived full stop full tilt, the most comfortable position

always lying. It was easy. God was the honey creeping

down the side of a jar. Everyone was a tremor

in the leg. Look at me smiling. I mean it. Watch

how I look to the sky, how I rise the way birds

are compelled to sing because it’s becoming light:

Deeper now you said go deeper. & I keep unburying

what’s left. What’s left isn’t the volume we made. It’s quiet:

the hot air the mosquitos & me. The quilting coming

up through the sheets. I miss you towards dark. I still do

still try. I’m left saving my breath, remembering

how at the end of every working day the dirt

I took was always more than I could put back in.

Words to be Whispered

The fantasy of coming home

to a house devoid

of furniture: the burning

mattress

all that’s left: look at it:

barren & wrecked:

this is what you want:

the optimism of smoke

curling around a head,

animating the air

lubricating the lung:

in the morning,

(always in the morning)

the shock

the relief & frustration

of light growing

This room: These hours:

That sink: Those dishes:

Laundry: Lovers: four

fists: empty space: palms

Myth

In the story everyone disappears,

or nearly everyone. If I were left

behind, I’m not sure my life would be

so different. I guess I’d run

out of food. Fewer phone calls. Less small

talk. More sadness. I’m building a desk

these days, with a man. For hours

we move wood through machines,

we glue wood to wood, we screw

wood to wood. Sometimes we talk.

I’m only realizing how much time

I’ve spent alone. Most of my life,

I think. If everyone were gone I don’t think

I’d drink. Though that one’s hard to foresee.

My father strung together eleven years

more than once. Tom relapsed after 30:

They’re both dead. I already miss them.

I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted to share

anything before now. Listening to the

wind blowing through branches and birds,

I remember going to the market in St. Louis,

the small one on the corner with someone

I was beginning to love. We fought.

My life is easy now, and it is boring. It feels,

recently, like practice for the rapture.

There is a storm, and I’m in it, and it is

inside. Between the gusts, creaking

in the limbs. I’m seeing the lightning when I close

my eyes. It makes no sound.

No one is going to touch me again.

Motor

Intake, compression,

combustion, exhaust.

Suck, squeeze, bang, blow.

The dark stone rising,

the light rock rising,

the suck before the squeeze,

the bang before the blow,

the cobblestones rising

on the walk

to the gas station again,

another case, another

bottle, the inside

of the car,

the feeling of skin

on your skin when

you had skin

on your skin,

being inside

the skull, the bang

before the blow, that suck

squeeze bang blow feeling,

woodgrain upholstery,

lean your head back

into the drywall,

the Ogods the Nogods,

those lies, how good

they tasted, that thin

magic, the no I’m not,

the yeah I stopped,

the never again,

and its picking up,

feel it sucking,

feeling it

squeezing, and you’re

gone finally, finally gone,

the night coming gentle

your little engine

turning over,

there’s the coin

tucked behind

your fingers,

there it is again

coming through

the fine hair

ahead of someone’s ear,

remember

how much shorter

the roof was

when you let

the engine run,

how the teeth

of the saw

seemed so much

duller, remember

how everyone left,

remember how you left

everyone,

all those people

you forgot so fast,

these mouths, those hands,

seeing rabbits

in the lawn

leaping, stars

in the middle

of the day,

shapes and sounds,

sucking, squeezing,

banging, blowing,

remember how bad

the sun hurt,

the water and salt

coming from

your skin, little needles,

how deep

the quarry was,

how easy not to

come up for air,

remember

the choking,

the smoke,

the squeeze,

those fingertips

against your neck,

engine stopped

the pulse

kicking over

again, remember

the light

remember

the this is how it is,

the this is it, the suck

the this is how

it has to be,

the squeeze,

the dry out,

the bang,

the come on,

the remember this

come on.

Eden

It is

an ugly place,

where living happens

despite. Look

at them: making

up names for

anything

with legs. See how

they run

their hands

as cups

through the water

and bring it

to their lips. Look

at how

crooked

their alphabet.

Bewilderment

while the world

builds up

around them.

and the sheep

break a hole

in the fence. How

they swallow

the people

they miss. The way

they use

words as if

they have nothing

else: saying moon

when they do not

yet know

the word

mirror. How they

stop speaking

when they

have nothing

to say. Watch

him

on his hands

and knees

crawling

around

the shop floor,

his joy pulling

a spring

from beneath

a dusty table:

the revelation

of it. That fear

in wonder. Still

figuring from

which little

machine

it has fallen out.