The 29th Bather
In all the bars they stand with liquids in their hands:
tall and dark and light, thin, stout, young and middle-aged,
thick eye brows and sleepy eyes, short military-style
hair, curls and fur and cleanly shaved, soft flannel shirts, tee's tight
over pecs and biceps. Bow-legged, long and straight, short,
thigh muscles wrapped in blues, and blacks, and various
fades.
Walt, I can smell them: soap and sweat and after-shave.
Walt, I want to trace my finger along each tattoo.
Walt, I lied: I want to use my tongue
I have no use for names
joy is the meeting of the flesh
such beauty, such bounty in this landscape!
Outside the world is 17 degrees. It lightly snows the night
black and white, yet here we gather
around this glittering watering hole
bathed in artificial light.
I watch them, Walt. I don't think they see me.
Age is a disguise
the heart puts on, pretending to get wise.
I love them, Walt
for the strength they get from the beef they eat, for their ignorance
and sudden kindness, for the way they live
[no break]
as if the days ahead were countless and theirs,
the openness of their faces as if they truly believed
every battle would be noble.
Though I would reach til I felt their beards and reach
til I held their feet, I am content to sit with my drink
and book of poems (not yours).
One of them beside me
offers me his hand.
I feel the atoms shift in his firm grip. Condensation from his glass
splashes me. It took me many years
to brave the pain that kept me out:
here I am, Walt,
swimming.
The Unspoken
It wasn't the wind but the echo
of the wind. The ache of it
the bone feeling –
It wasn't the rain but moving water—
streams and creeks. The little bodies
that fed the rivers, fed the oceans.
It wasn't the sun but knowing the sun,
knowing the moon. Knowing their
dance. Knowing their dance with the earth.
It was the moving water under the moon,
the sun breathing the winds. The wind
kissing the water, the water spread-eagle
beneath the sun. It was all this inanimate life:
the bone feeling, the blood
flowing, the pounding
in my brain and in my heart
and in my cunt. If they were inanimate, then say
so was I. Or say, instead, they were unspoken—
say the language they spoke was one
dogs and horses and cats know.
Know we need these animals
because of their knowledge, because their understanding is
indefinable and necessary
[no break]
as breathing,
because in their great compassion
these animals
condescend to our touch
condescend to live with us
ground us
to soil and rocks
and water
sweep us up on the wind to the stars.
P.R. Dyjak [aka Patricia R. Dyjak] is a poet, disabled, retired professor of English who taught creative writing at the UWSP. Issues of social justice are of great importance to Dyjak, as is the web of life. She is a lyrical poet trying to be brave enough to push language and silence to do more. She lives with her dog Zoey and cats Flora and Chianna in the very green city of Stevens Point in the very white, northern part of WI. Her chapbook Symphony for the Cutters (2013) is available through Kattywompus Press, Boston.