Wednesday, July 16, 2014

A Poem! Job II

Job II

They don’t know why
we’re kind, really.
Maybe your fingers on my arm
are like veins on a leaf,
or the dances bees do,
or something else
between genes.

And I don’t know if I am kind,
or that I want to be,
or that it’s not really something
super, below.

The poets have their own equations:
It’s those roots half-bulged in the grass,
or the sweat on her lips,
or the memory of your father
pouring skim milk into his tea.
A passing sense of yes.

Promised infinity,
we climb out on the roof,
every night waiting
to see our dad fly home;
Each plane a promise
that the other one exists.

Losing the bet,
God went double or nothing:
I bet I can make them
sense me, somehow.
Fine, said Satan. 
Just don’t touch the house.
Poor guy just paid that off.

Copyright, Jeff Guhin 2014 (and seriously, it's not that good, so come on)