The low clouds blown northeast, and the higher clouds blowing slowly the opposite direction.
\nOnce, on acid, I watched the water separate like this, layers above the lake. That day<\/p>\n
a deer had broken its leg on the mud flats at my parent\u2019s house. Our Lab
\nstood on the shore, mud-caked to his belly,
\nbarking in sequence\u2014 one! two! three!\u2026 one,\u2014 like a clock on the hour. That was a terrible tide.<\/p>\n
Along this strip of coast, palms blunt the shoreline.<\/p>\n
From the field where Nestor and I have cut paille<\/em> to replace his roof First big drops scattering dust on the road\u2014 Plunk. Until the rain hits so hard another coup in the capital<\/em>.<\/p>\n Burned cars and barricades are no longer Stepping from the backs of the badjans<\/em>, reaching up for their bags, ~<\/p>\n I think of Paul Celan walking along the Seine. still sharp, still feeling. Cars brush up against her. The rise then she is gone. I push her onto the sidewalk again.<\/p>\n Gold flecks she is more in love than ever. The image of herself over the passengers. She is anonymous and desirable.<\/p>\n She does not begin to resent or draw conclusions. The garbage from the streets is carried into the Seine. ~<\/p>\n Elephant grass burns in a long line. The hood of smoke flinching. The women cross the courtyard hurry embers into their huts<\/p>\n and the children line buckets beneath my eaves. The corrugated tin then the sound of water stacking.<\/p>\n Even with these monsoons, the waves roll out. Graceful Leaving home At night, I scratch my heels against the bites on my legs.<\/p>\n Paul,<\/p>\n I am sorry like some child on a swing, until each face so familiar, so sensitive it glows\u2026<\/p>\n What is this notion of purity?<\/p>\n The mind stands like that lip of tide but your heart is mired in conclusion.<\/p>\n ~<\/p>\n Missing what she imagines for herself as sorrow being An aria of human names.<\/p>\n I have given myself permission to call it: infidelity;<\/p>\n the branching of faith;<\/p>\n reader. The head of language rises. The low clouds blown northeast, and the higher clouds blowing slowly the opposite direction. Once, on acid, I watched the water separate like this, layers above the lake. That day a deer had broken its leg on the mud flats at my parent\u2019s house. Our Lab stood on the shore, mud-caked to his belly, barking […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[10],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-1kD","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5123"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5123"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5123\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10265,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5123\/revisions\/10265"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5123"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5123"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5123"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe monsoon clouds are visible out to sea, bunched with lightning.<\/p>\n
\nPlunk\u2014 on my tin roof.<\/p>\n
\nthat the drops bounce back up and land again, like static
\nbeneath the radio\u2019s news:<\/p>\n
\nremoved from the radio station, which is always taken first.<\/p>\n
\nrelatives will begin to tell their stories.<\/p>\n
\nHe watches the only other walker out on the wet streets. I put her there
\non the bridge. Young existentialism<\/p>\n
\nof the black ground<\/p>\n
\nswirl around the pavilion of quicksand in Celan\u2019s throat.
\nHe can see<\/p>\n
\nflickers on the passing windows, flickers<\/p>\n
\nMy twin, which saves me, thinks Celan.<\/p>\n
\nFor the first time, she remembers she began this morning with an umbrella.<\/p>\n
\nambling more voluminously. Rain harder, less<\/p>\n
\nherds the water into strands
\nfirst smacking the plastic bottoms of the buckets<\/p>\n
\nbackbends of saltwater.<\/p>\n
\nhas made me gentler.<\/p>\n
\nabout the little violence I have contributed to this poem,
\npushing my friend<\/p>\n
\nmy attention straying
\nafter that hummingbird impulse, throb in the face of every stranger<\/p>\n
\nagainst its undertow. Ahh\u2026Paul,<\/p>\n
\nis not quite the same<\/p>\n
\nin possession of the Imagined\u2014the immeasurable
\nhuman name.<\/p>\n
\nWrapped in smoke, wrapped in cloud, wrapped in rain.<\/p>\nTodd Fredson<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"