Amorak Huey, a former newspaper editor and reporter, teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry 2012, The Cincinnati Review, Caketrain, Rattle, RHINO, The Southern Review, Linebreak, and other journals. Follow him on Twitter: @amorak. ---------
Mourning
Last name, title, expiration date,
what goes sour, what survives:
we sort and clarify. Nothing avoids scrutiny,
her lasting knack for making us feel
untouchable. We smother furniture
in plastic. We come in out of the snow
expecting tenderness. We stockpile
all manner of miracles: cardinals
in winter, sun-catchers on sliding glass.
We lose track of how long
since we curled still and new and listened
to her heart keeping time –
it was the only sound in the world
and then it was not.
Self-Portrait as Blues Harmonica
These things we leave behind, these promises
we make but do not mean – how long
have we lived in this part of the world?
Rivers spill from banks, levees cannot hold.
The wind carries its lonely sound from oak to birch,
no instrument comes nearer to the pain
of human voice – to name a thing
is to transcend it, to render it harmless.
You want this to sort itself out,
to fold into narrative – we all expect
beginning, middle, end, moral to story,
we want hero, villain, true love
or something that pretends to be,
at least for tonight, my darling,
nothing exists outside our own skin
& the dangerous equilibrium
between root that thrums below
& limb that tears free
when this electric sky splits open.
Life Story
Born into a musical family.
Grew up under a rose tree.
Developed allergies.
Attended a number of fine schools.
Fought in one of the wars.
Designed the winter museum.
Avoided surprise. Dressed well.
Lacked political motivation.
Married once, loved much.
Threatened by habitat loss.
Chose wisely. Acquired taste.
Traveled often by rail.
Grew ill with tuberculosis.
We want what we want –
an easy path, a sunlit field.
Last name, title, expiration date,
what goes sour, what survives:
we sort and clarify. Nothing avoids scrutiny,
her lasting knack for making us feel
untouchable. We smother furniture
in plastic. We come in out of the snow
expecting tenderness. We stockpile
all manner of miracles: cardinals
in winter, sun-catchers on sliding glass.
We lose track of how long
since we curled still and new and listened
to her heart keeping time –
it was the only sound in the world
and then it was not.
Self-Portrait as Blues Harmonica
These things we leave behind, these promises
we make but do not mean – how long
have we lived in this part of the world?
Rivers spill from banks, levees cannot hold.
The wind carries its lonely sound from oak to birch,
no instrument comes nearer to the pain
of human voice – to name a thing
is to transcend it, to render it harmless.
You want this to sort itself out,
to fold into narrative – we all expect
beginning, middle, end, moral to story,
we want hero, villain, true love
or something that pretends to be,
at least for tonight, my darling,
nothing exists outside our own skin
& the dangerous equilibrium
between root that thrums below
& limb that tears free
when this electric sky splits open.
Life Story
Born into a musical family.
Grew up under a rose tree.
Developed allergies.
Attended a number of fine schools.
Fought in one of the wars.
Designed the winter museum.
Avoided surprise. Dressed well.
Lacked political motivation.
Married once, loved much.
Threatened by habitat loss.
Chose wisely. Acquired taste.
Traveled often by rail.
Grew ill with tuberculosis.
We want what we want –
an easy path, a sunlit field.