House on Water, House in Air

Those places kept, where we keep
and where we can’t, the river.
Where the riverbank is firm,
but crumbling, where the slate
of long ages shows bones dissolving.

Along these a boy among the living
thinks that nothing is near, or worth
believing in. That every bit of air
comes from where he will never get
and the house, lifted from its mooring,
feels like his soul in longing,

while in the room remain traces
of the adult, the underwear scattered,
a few brown drops of blood, a corpse
set loose, rolling on the floor,
in this house made of air,
house nailed by less than dream,

house that drifts with the flood of all
he thought he wanted, house that floats
on a muddy river in spring-time flood,
house like a human head on the surface,
house with a boy’s face, turned up.

Class on Book XI

When we spoke about the return
from the war and how he probed
the beach with his sword, pouring
into the hole a mix of blood, honey,
and win, we felt a small aperture
opening within the words. Shades
rose to the threshold, some eager
as children let out from school.
Others lingered in the grayness,
their lives burdened with more
than was deserved. We saw some
worth fearing: thick, brutal men
who clutched at what they thought
they were due. Others with furtive
glances wanted to name who was
at fault, who had made amends.
We heard, as if in a room nearby,
a song as gentle to the ear as pages
we turned together. A light wind
carried the notes, but not the words,
and when the song ended, a nylon
jacket sifted from a chair to the floor,
billowing like a sail. It landed softly,
like a friend’s on the forearm,
turning you in the direction of home.

From The Looking House. © 2009 by Fred Marchant. All rights reserved.