I squint against
the brightness of early-afternoon
beyond the picture window,
because the man at the table to my right
is alone and ordering for two: She’s stuck
at the train tracks. We’ll both
have the chicken, and the man
at the table to my left has
a tributary of dried blood trailing
from his ear. He is laughing,
which makes it worse
because I know he knows
what is sad about this place,
what is sad about a wife who
can’t quite look at you
in focus.
And they know
Autumn is poorer in hope
than winter, because
they know what will come.
The beginning
is so far from the end
that it is an end in itself.
My grandmother’s skin hangs looser on her arms
than I remember. She tugs down fleece sleeves
when she notices I’m looking.
My soup has cooled, my spoon
forgotten and limp
among the onions.
Outside, vacant docks line the Navesink
and cold little houses huddled on a hill
remember the cranberries and cobalts
that painted their faces in
hungrier days.
November 26, 2008
A Rainy Weekend on Top of Mont-Royal
i.
Some plum trees, near winter:
hard, bald fruit and
six or so yellow leaves
shivering on tips of
twisted Van Gogh branches—
stiff shoulders, arms lifted
in praise: these I know.
And the bare-knuckle, fallen
raw wound plums: purple
pock marks on a dry lawn, rotting
in the churchyard. These
I know.
ii.
On the corner of Sainte-Catherine
and Rue Crescent: a lit match,
quivering ruby smudge in a
fog gray night. (I know, at least,
the smell.) Thirty dollars richer in gin,
I know the swimming through
crowds of chills. I know the
bar doors opening and
closing like coral polyps, and
I know their insides: a hollow sound,
smooth pink underbellies.
Sticky floors.
iii.
Yesterday was years ago, waiting
for the metro at Champ-de-Mars.
I knew the cold
smell, the eclipse of
black coffee in a white cup.
Today I folded words, days-old
into paper cranes and
set them forcedly free,
leaning and aching
in the hotel sink. I don’t know
words any more, I don’t know
a city, a November
weekend with
you in it.
Some plum trees, near winter:
hard, bald fruit and
six or so yellow leaves
shivering on tips of
twisted Van Gogh branches—
stiff shoulders, arms lifted
in praise: these I know.
And the bare-knuckle, fallen
raw wound plums: purple
pock marks on a dry lawn, rotting
in the churchyard. These
I know.
ii.
On the corner of Sainte-Catherine
and Rue Crescent: a lit match,
quivering ruby smudge in a
fog gray night. (I know, at least,
the smell.) Thirty dollars richer in gin,
I know the swimming through
crowds of chills. I know the
bar doors opening and
closing like coral polyps, and
I know their insides: a hollow sound,
smooth pink underbellies.
Sticky floors.
iii.
Yesterday was years ago, waiting
for the metro at Champ-de-Mars.
I knew the cold
smell, the eclipse of
black coffee in a white cup.
Today I folded words, days-old
into paper cranes and
set them forcedly free,
leaning and aching
in the hotel sink. I don’t know
words any more, I don’t know
a city, a November
weekend with
you in it.
The Day Before Thanksgiving in Red Bank, New Jersey
My father’s dreams were
born and raised on Coney Island.
I see them from an overlook
atop the bluffs of Sandy Hook,
the familiar mix of forest, farmland and
billowing power plant at my back.
Brooklyn is tiny and fogged, delicate
from a distance, but New Jersey
knows everything
through gray-tinted lenses.
Nineteen Rosemary Drive
is a tan clapboard house
with two sets of stairs leading to
two different doors leading to
where my mother ate and slept until
the beckoning of exotic Navesink River Road
became too tempting to ignore any longer.
My grandmother sleeps in the bed
next to me, a little less nostalgic
and probably remembering lightly
how hard it was to leave here
for a sunnier kind of run-down town.
My mother gets lost on a country road
and wonders aloud when
trees began outnumbering street signs
in Monmouth County.
About a mile down, after some railroad tracks
and more blank Autumn,
ten deer stir next to the road,
a sign with an arrow pointing West
and a slight and peeling RED BANK, 2 MILES
just beyond them
in startling green.
born and raised on Coney Island.
I see them from an overlook
atop the bluffs of Sandy Hook,
the familiar mix of forest, farmland and
billowing power plant at my back.
Brooklyn is tiny and fogged, delicate
from a distance, but New Jersey
knows everything
through gray-tinted lenses.
Nineteen Rosemary Drive
is a tan clapboard house
with two sets of stairs leading to
two different doors leading to
where my mother ate and slept until
the beckoning of exotic Navesink River Road
became too tempting to ignore any longer.
My grandmother sleeps in the bed
next to me, a little less nostalgic
and probably remembering lightly
how hard it was to leave here
for a sunnier kind of run-down town.
My mother gets lost on a country road
and wonders aloud when
trees began outnumbering street signs
in Monmouth County.
About a mile down, after some railroad tracks
and more blank Autumn,
ten deer stir next to the road,
a sign with an arrow pointing West
and a slight and peeling RED BANK, 2 MILES
just beyond them
in startling green.
November 16, 2008
October 25, 2008
Parkland, Florida (Revised)
In a town sinking
inches each year
back into the Everglades,
we spent summers plucking petals
from wild orchids, drinking
brackish water, testing luck
and trying hard to get lost
on roads we knew like old adages.
Loxahatchee Road was wild,
following the curve of a creek—
a streak of dirt that cut the county
clean in half. Once at the end of it,
eighty ounces of Olde English in,
we found a baby alligator tied by its neck
to the trunk of a Live Oak
with pink fishing line.
Ankle-deep in black water,
you cut it loose with your car key
in the light of headlights and a half-moon.
We watched the sawgrass
bend, strange curves and angles
as the gator swam free. The thin vein of
Loxahatchee was pulsating with no real
conviction to our left, and the glades spread
strange and flat everywhere else—
half a peninsula covered in damp carpet.
With quickly fading flushed cheeks, we were
two ghosts, stunned and disappearing
as daylight seeped slow over the brim
of marshland and
into puddles at our feet.
inches each year
back into the Everglades,
we spent summers plucking petals
from wild orchids, drinking
brackish water, testing luck
and trying hard to get lost
on roads we knew like old adages.
Loxahatchee Road was wild,
following the curve of a creek—
a streak of dirt that cut the county
clean in half. Once at the end of it,
eighty ounces of Olde English in,
we found a baby alligator tied by its neck
to the trunk of a Live Oak
with pink fishing line.
Ankle-deep in black water,
you cut it loose with your car key
in the light of headlights and a half-moon.
We watched the sawgrass
bend, strange curves and angles
as the gator swam free. The thin vein of
Loxahatchee was pulsating with no real
conviction to our left, and the glades spread
strange and flat everywhere else—
half a peninsula covered in damp carpet.
With quickly fading flushed cheeks, we were
two ghosts, stunned and disappearing
as daylight seeped slow over the brim
of marshland and
into puddles at our feet.
October 22, 2008
parkland, florida
in a town sinking inches every year
back into the everglades,
we spent summers plucking petals
from wild orchids, testing fate
and trying to get lost on
roads we knew like old adages.
loxahatchee road was wild,
following the curve of a creek,
a streak of dirt that cut the county
clean in half. once at the end of it,
eighty ounces of olde english in,
we found a baby alligator tied by its neck
to the trunk of a live oak
with pink fishing line.
ankle-deep in black water,
you cut it loose with your car key
in the light of headlights and a half-moon.
the everglades were strange and flat
behind you, and sawgrass swayed
in the slow-motion wind
as the gator swam free,
cut loose. we sat and watched the trail
its tail frantically carved in the water
from the cold hood of your volkswagen.
shaken into sobriety, we were
two ghosts, shocked and disappearing
as daylight seeped slow over the brim
of marshland and into
our open hands.
back into the everglades,
we spent summers plucking petals
from wild orchids, testing fate
and trying to get lost on
roads we knew like old adages.
loxahatchee road was wild,
following the curve of a creek,
a streak of dirt that cut the county
clean in half. once at the end of it,
eighty ounces of olde english in,
we found a baby alligator tied by its neck
to the trunk of a live oak
with pink fishing line.
ankle-deep in black water,
you cut it loose with your car key
in the light of headlights and a half-moon.
the everglades were strange and flat
behind you, and sawgrass swayed
in the slow-motion wind
as the gator swam free,
cut loose. we sat and watched the trail
its tail frantically carved in the water
from the cold hood of your volkswagen.
shaken into sobriety, we were
two ghosts, shocked and disappearing
as daylight seeped slow over the brim
of marshland and into
our open hands.
September 27, 2008
paris
we are drunk after lunch
and lost in the latin quarter—
your footsteps counting cadences,
quick ticks on a metronome
walking us eventually
to the end of this movement.
then, the boulevard saint-michel and
suddenly the seine, opaline in the sun.
after cinque arrondissements
and four or five da capa al fines
in the form of platitudes like
paris is laid out like a nautilus shell, spinning
out from the center and
in barcelona, the buildings looked like
they had hangovers--
finally montmartre, with
the smudge-faced men tying
loose green and red and yellow strings
around the wrists of gullible tourists
in front of the carousel
at the bottom of the steps of sacre coeur.
and at the bottom of those steps i am
at the bottom of a canyon,
with a fray of strings around my wrist
and whines of ghost accordions echoing in my ears,
and flying, dipping, expressionless unicorns
spinning in front of my eyes.
and lost in the latin quarter—
your footsteps counting cadences,
quick ticks on a metronome
walking us eventually
to the end of this movement.
then, the boulevard saint-michel and
suddenly the seine, opaline in the sun.
after cinque arrondissements
and four or five da capa al fines
in the form of platitudes like
paris is laid out like a nautilus shell, spinning
out from the center and
in barcelona, the buildings looked like
they had hangovers--
finally montmartre, with
the smudge-faced men tying
loose green and red and yellow strings
around the wrists of gullible tourists
in front of the carousel
at the bottom of the steps of sacre coeur.
and at the bottom of those steps i am
at the bottom of a canyon,
with a fray of strings around my wrist
and whines of ghost accordions echoing in my ears,
and flying, dipping, expressionless unicorns
spinning in front of my eyes.
September 11, 2008
zurich
on top of lindenhof,
lime blossoms and tiny green fruit
hang delicate from tendrils, thin
yellow ribbons strung from the lindens' branches.
we sit, silhouettes under the tangles
of limb and leaf, and in silence
we assume we're alone,
but birds shoot out from under the deck like arrows
at the start of a car engine
like the clearing of a throat.
and they are silhouettes, too,
suddenly so many feathered shapes,
flapping and flying around us against
seamless blue: the sky and
lake zurich, an open mouth
circled by rows of pointed,
snow-capped
teeth.
lime blossoms and tiny green fruit
hang delicate from tendrils, thin
yellow ribbons strung from the lindens' branches.
we sit, silhouettes under the tangles
of limb and leaf, and in silence
we assume we're alone,
but birds shoot out from under the deck like arrows
at the start of a car engine
like the clearing of a throat.
and they are silhouettes, too,
suddenly so many feathered shapes,
flapping and flying around us against
seamless blue: the sky and
lake zurich, an open mouth
circled by rows of pointed,
snow-capped
teeth.
May 20, 2008
chapbooks
i've only assembled four so far, but i have enough supplies to make about twenty. email me (regimes@gmail.com) if you're interested!
May 6, 2008
(not a poem)
hello!
i'm going to be making about twelve hand-assembled chapbooks of a bunch of my poems this week. they're $5, but i'll also accept really sweet trades! email me at regimes@gmail.com if you're interested in buying/trading.
or, if you just want to exchange poems, i'd love to do that too. you can email me or just mail one/some my way:
erin berkowitz
198 tremont street, box #141
boston, ma 02116
i have a really sweet typewriter and will whip you up a poem to send right back. so fast!! promise.
i'm not sure anyone actually reads this, but thanks..!
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