“102,” “Poem in which I Commit to Being an Indoor Son,” and “Preserves”

everything beautiful hurts

to be touched

                                        your mother’s

cold hand on your forehead

 

the number on the thermometer

higher than your burning mind

can count

                    and now you’re the king

of the loneliest pillow fort

sixty-four crayons rolling off

the table

 

                   their unpronounceable

names so many different words

for what looks the same

          ochre   garnet  vermillion

 

you read that poison dart frogs

were bright to warn that they

were poisonous

                                            but your eyes

are missing crucial cones

 

what color is an elephant

or for that matter peanut

butter

         

                 the gameshow host

offers a new car the shade

of copper blood

                                           you wolf

down your saltines and

lemon lime soda

 

the night that you know

you are closest to God

                     your speech unwinds

like an old VHS tape

 

you are not there

                     you are pointing

at picture of frogs

 

with their pretty colors

                     with their fancy

names that have flown

 

from your head:

yellow orange green

red red red red red

the jogger runs each winter morning   cloud-breath

slipping from his mouth like a ghost     I am tired

of my body   being a machine      as a little boy

I watered plants and watched them wither

under the bathroom light   no bulb can quite replace

the sun   but I want to have a soul   like a cactus

want to live off tea and saltines   and I did

for one semester of college   and nearly got scurvy

my kingdom for a lemon   we’re never complete

without a sour little pill   my aunt survived

on bottles   but told me of monks who could live

on one berry a week   one berry and the idea

of bread   I want to run faster than the cold

but water expands when it freezes   when the jogger

passes by and its cells align just right   a tree explodes

a shower of bark and frost   one day all of me

will be in order   the fault lines like laugh marks

on my mouth   the ice crystals so beautiful

you delight in seeing them   crack

You hate the word jam,

the way it implies

a mistake, a backed-up

garden hose or a bullet

with failure to launch.

When you pour the berries

into the saucepan and drown

them in sugar

what you are really doing,

you tell me, is preserving.

Taking the beauty,

the sweetness,

of a summer day

and giving it to the future.

You’re never sure that you’ll survive

the freeze. So instead you jar,

you pickle, wring out every bit

of juice for later

and I understand

the allure of a sure thing,

a five-step plan

for ensuring the world

won’t erase us. What if

I promised you’d live

through the winter?

What if we won

by just living today?

Pop a berry in your mouth.

Save this image for later:

your soft hands,

your red-stained teeth.