by Jacques Rancourt
No e-mails can reach you.
No texts. Here, a smokestack
chokes up soot intermittently.
Cloud-makers, I once called them,
(5) and what a world if that were true.
At the window I tap from
the interior and wait for the ghost
to write back. Only the willow,
starved for water, responds
(10) by clicking a beaded branch
against the glass. At one end
of a parking lot, a Target bag
skims the pavement,
drifts before a thing whose stillness
(15) I took to be a truck at rest,
moonlight on chrome,
its driver asleep across the seats.
How his mother, if she lives,
must worry. I wake and wait
(20) for you to call at this lavender hour.
Nothing strange inside
your heartbeat, irregular as it was,
nothing but your blood's drum,
your mysterious body
(25) more mysterious now,
more foreign for being
outside of me. I thought
we were made of water,
one soul split into two,
(30) but we are made of canyon,
a sky unpolluted by light
and thus filled with light,
a moon so full
if reveals the desert to be
(35) in motion: a coyote stalking
a trickle of water,
a wren skipping nail to nail
on the arm of a cactus.
imaginal energy. I like the image of the smokestack smoking away. The narrator taps against the glass, watching a Target bag drifting through the parking lot like some wrath--"At one end / of a parking lot, a Target bag / skims the pavement, / drifts before a thing whose stillness / I took to be a truck at rest, / moonlight on chrome," All very beautiful! The poem is focused on describing all of these images, a very image heavy poem. And then it turns in line 19-- "I wake and wait / for you to call at this lavender hour." Now we are inside the narrators head again and he (I'm assuming it is a male) is dreaming of "your mysterious body" (which I am assuming is a girl).
But it doesn't stop there. In his contemplation he continues to look inward. To examine this relationship and how it effects him and his sense of self. On this inward journey, the narrator turns the poem again in line 27--"I thought / we were made of water, / one soul split into two, / but we are made of canyon," Now we turn into a metaphor. These two people, man and woman, are "made of canyon." They cannot be further from each other; they are different.
Some wonderful final images as well.
- "a coyote stalking / a trickle of water, / a wren skipping nail to nail / on the arm of a cactus."