Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems

It takes many paces
and lots of grunting and sweating
for this particular alchemy

a transformation
whereby the merely functional
becomes transcendent

from pleasant green carpet
to abundant fecundity
in a sweep of seasons

on this side of the magic
the audience is skeptical
the payoff should be stupendous

but the gardener knows
it's more work than magic
or, the magic comes only after work.

The spades (for it must be done by hand)
will tremble, then shiver into worms,
but soon enough they will unearth his box.
They will find a great ripe apple
and inside it a woman
and she will erupt into parrots
(they don't flock, it's cacophony)
and the colors will paint everything into brilliance.
Facts and minutiae they will not find
and truth remains always glowing
behind another layer
and another
and another
and the poet's
smile will wash over them
like a breeze,
refreshing after their exertions.

“Let’s get out of the house,”
I said. You agreed.
No destination in mind
just a stir-crazy jaunt into town.
I wanted to offer something
“We’ll walk in the park or downtown.”

As I drove us to town
you found out a few of your friends
were having lunch at a place;
we stopped in, chatted a few minutes,
walked on.
As ever, you were glued to your device.

I took a cell photo of you
at the town square,
hunched and thumbing in sun-silhouette
beside the fountain’s water jets
that were time-stamped into globs;
a rosy lens-flare UFO hovered nearby.

I wanted to say something to you
something meaningful, helpful
I don’t know when I’ll see you again
and we’ve hardly spoken in the five months
we’ve shared the same roof.
But I stepped around artificial pith and platitudes.

We walked a bit more
looked over a restaurant menu
chatted about sticking to your guns,
then you found your opportunity.
“Can you take me to TJ’s?
I’ll stay there tonight.”

I don’t mind, I don’t blame you.
You’ve learned to be an opportunist.
It’s an adaptation that serves,
given that you don’t drive
and your friends, I imagine,
are wary of your characteristic pandemonium.

After I dropped you off, I wondered
how many such aimless encounters,
how many hours’ “chillin’”
it would take to counter
the teeth-gritted silence
I served you these many months.

Today it was chainsaw and branch cutter;
tomorrow, the chipper.
We inventive apes
prefer well-controlled violence.
A chain neatly following an ellipse,
a pack of greyhounds
coursing after the electric rabbit,
metal for muscles and all teeth.

The long-handled clippers
cleverly lever force
down to a few scant inches
of cold steel blade—
a bird-beak magnifier,
tree-bone slicer.

We like these machines,
breed them in endless varieties,
fill the shed with them,
the garage, the basement.
Carefully crafted,
each with its singular purpose.
We choose among their verbs:
cut, clip, saw, chop, chip.

Wielding tuned power
makes an ironic prayer
against the descent of
that horrific violence,
unhinged and raw,
of chaos.

The visitor observes etiquette,
asks no personal questions
of the resident brother-in-law,
the odd addendum to the household.
She is polite, but confines her conversation
to mundanities
"Care for some more salad?"
and newsy exchanges with the hosts,
her father and his wife.

Yet unwittingly
she has made a comment,
revealed the unspoken secret
of her pre-arrival coaching.
Really, what could she say anyway?
"So, how's it going leeching off family?"
Or, "Why is it again you don't get a job?"
So instead, no getting-to-know-you questions
for a man she's never met before.
Does she imagine
   this acquaintance-dodging has gone unnoticed?
Does she believe
   you can't fall into a hole that no one acknowledges?
Is she uncomfortable asking no questions at all?

She must be.
But breeding or tact quells curiosity.
She has a relaxed personality,
doesn't betray discomfort
(or enjoys the comfort of her own judgment)
and there's enough talk to go around.
I'm sympathetic.
It's an awkward position to be in.
Perhaps as awkward as
being asked no questions.