{"id":1523,"date":"2012-04-13T17:19:21","date_gmt":"2012-04-13T17:19:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1523"},"modified":"2012-04-14T22:34:44","modified_gmt":"2012-04-14T22:34:44","slug":"dennis-mahagin-0412","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/dennis-mahagin-0412\/","title":{"rendered":"Dennis Mahagin, 04\/12"},"content":{"rendered":"

In The Details<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You are not<\/p>\n

a vacant lot, strewn<\/p>\n

with crushed<\/p>\n

candy gum<\/p>\n

wrappers and<\/p>\n

tumbleweeds, a lemon<\/p>\n

Nova up on<\/p>\n

blocks.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You’re not vacant<\/p>\n

at all in July when<\/p>\n

it’s hot, plenty of dust<\/p>\n

too where devils<\/p>\n

exist, they do — reborn<\/p>\n

every sixteen seconds<\/p>\n

on the level keen<\/p>\n

of sirens.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Must have seen<\/p>\n

the reflections in busted<\/p>\n

green glass, silver pull tabs<\/p>\n

limning the salty shoals. How<\/p>\n

many minutiae, before stories<\/p>\n

get told? You, who are<\/p>\n

neither field, channel<\/p>\n

spit nor savant, now<\/p>\n

would want me<\/p>\n

revealed?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

… Very well the<\/p>\n

arboretum, breeze blows<\/p>\n

as respite, no judgment<\/p>\n

on these long summer<\/p>\n

days; shade tree, yes a<\/p>\n

trillion points of sun among<\/p>\n

interstices. That’s me,<\/p>\n

and it will be<\/p>\n

done.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nothing can save<\/p>\n

the self but a soul now<\/p>\n

that is something<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

else. Butterflies know<\/p>\n

this too; most wise,<\/p>\n

they carry<\/p>\n

nothing. The best<\/p>\n

of Coho spawned<\/p>\n

is but a dash<\/p>\n

of red on<\/p>\n

the rocks. Rivers come<\/p>\n

to suicide at the mouth<\/p>\n

of every sea. You’re no<\/p>\n

harbor, either, only one skiff<\/p>\n

among motes of sun, rigged<\/p>\n

for the longest glide ever,<\/p>\n

the hardest<\/p>\n

one.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When it hurts<\/p>\n

worst, keep finding me<\/p>\n

in the strobe light of tree<\/p>\n

tops. It’s mercy skirts<\/p>\n

the vacant<\/p>\n

lots.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Roget Between Spells<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I was working in the den<\/p>\n

when the electrical storm<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

crossed my heart<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

again. For nine<\/p>\n

minutes or maybe<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ten, I breathed<\/p>\n

spasm, writhing<\/p>\n

on the floor,<\/p>\n

as the atria<\/p>\n

banged<\/p>\n

like shutters<\/p>\n

in a gale, splinters<\/p>\n

of red nerve cell<\/p>\n

flying hard from<\/p>\n

the nail<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of fibrillation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hope I knew<\/p>\n

to be a word<\/p>\n

for feeling you can get out<\/p>\n

of anything, whereas when<\/p>\n

it blew<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

over, an antonym formed<\/p>\n

there in my den, bordering<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

on post traumatic, step ladder<\/p>\n

to an attic room\u00a0where terror<\/p>\n

is kept<\/p>\n

hydroponic like<\/p>\n

in a vase. I said “I’m okay<\/p>\n

I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay<\/p>\n

I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay,”\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

between gasps<\/p>\n

I got back<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

up then, filed things<\/p>\n

away, after the etymology<\/p>\n

of malady, “I might, I might<\/p>\n

I might I might… be” — skeleton<\/p>\n

jaw\u00a0and a key word for<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ben Franlin’s kite; it takes<\/p>\n

guts to be a linguist with<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a wonky heart<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

rhythm but “I am<\/p>\n

not I’m not I’m<\/p>\n

not\u00a0certainly<\/p>\n

not …” it changed<\/p>\n

again how I felt about<\/p>\n

thoughts, and<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

attacks… all that’s<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

past, and what’s left<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to come back.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Not two days later:<\/p>\n

of an early morning<\/p>\n

another word, hung<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

up tantalizingly on “tip<\/p>\n

of tongue” no less true<\/p>\n

for being ineffable<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

nagging cousin of “halcyon,”<\/p>\n

or sine wave keyed to tides,<\/p>\n

great heaving gulps of north<\/p>\n

coast in the lungs. Easy.<\/p>\n

It takes a lot of faith to be<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a patient: hunting a word<\/p>\n

for a name to face any<\/p>\n

thing… it slipped<\/p>\n

away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Is it true what<\/p>\n

they say? That it always<\/p>\n

comes back, not by<\/p>\n

“remembering” per se,<\/p>\n

nor out of dread,<\/p>\n

snapped digits or<\/p>\n

anticipation: but only<\/p>\n

when a mind is led<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

elsewhere: Could come<\/p>\n

any second<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

now, in the atrium,<\/p>\n

doing deep knee bends<\/p>\n

in my den; or in<\/p>\n

the garden where it’s been<\/p>\n

so quiet, for the longest<\/p>\n

time … I’m afraid I’m afraid<\/p>\n

when the taste<\/p>\n

in my mouth<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

starts to change.<\/p>\n

Like last time, similar<\/p>\n

but not really<\/p>\n

the same … these<\/p>\n

names have been<\/p>\n

around\u00a0since before<\/p>\n

the\u00a0Christ came.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In The Details   You are not a vacant lot, strewn with crushed candy gum wrappers and tumbleweeds, a lemon Nova up on blocks.   You’re not vacant at all in July when it’s hot, plenty of dust too where devils exist, they do — reborn every sixteen seconds on the level keen of sirens. 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