Naming the Stars

(a cento)

…

I know a few things about ink
and old salt. Always, and everything
after the word
…………presto
changes things, yep. Wave,
weave some magic, spell
your name in the slant
of sunlight on sea,
the quiet whoosh of a window
opening. Siren it
into song.

You think this is un
-familiar territory?

I have read my own rap
sheet. I have felt these long
always blank sheets between
tired digits. I know
how to fold a fitted sheet
(plump the verbs, tuck the nouns).
I have seen the news
……..(this, just in)
and sometimes some of it
is good.

I have explored
the other side of Franklin Street,
the other name you gave me
the conjugation of constellations
and the teachable imposture of always
………..wanting,
even when it falls, far off,
the sound of foghorns
on deaf ears.

I have stayed
……(swayed)
in Cordelia’s Cottage
for wayward sea maidens, stretched fin
and fingers far and wide and deep,
embraced full this Tahoe
moment, held hard
-ship against my ribcage.

I am beyond
bottles, returning myself
for chump change left to jangle
in once empty pockets.

I am the other time
you smiled, and the strange
symbiosis between salt water
……..(NaCl H2O)
and other solutions that sting. I am
the answer to the way the sea
smooshes herself
against the butterscotch pockets
of the other shore. I am the question
left when she leaves with a moan,
and milky moon.

It’s closing time, and
I have met
my other, the one
tryin’ to throw her arms
around the world, trying to tie
ember and ether
together with silence,
half truth,
broad appeal, loose
bootstraps. She’s tired,
but still she dreams
of pies, and bluer skies.

……………….What is it?
This thing I am stretching
halfway there to heaven, this
scar and scrap,
slivered semblance
……………………..of poem?

It’s born, and bare
and black. And soon
I am
………..(O, for pete’s sake)
taking it back.

 

…
Written for Poetic Asides, Day 25.
 

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