A Poem by O.G. Rose
This is the part where I describe a tree
without using the word “tree,”
because I was taught to be particular
by Woods and ever-particular still,
to instead say something about “barky texture”
and atoms bleeding out of themselves
into bugs, perhaps pull a Proust
and age into a kid studying
Caddy’s dirty undergarments,
because nature can be the poetic subject
of person-less people,
of mammals scared by progress,
of cities filling up with embodied possibilities
and buildings with many rooms.
Here, I’m supposed to tell you about a tiger lily
from an angle you’ve reserved for eating,
because it requires finger-tracing the petals,
ripping veins, and licking the pointed edges
that cannot cut you. This description suggests that dominion
over the earth is to pack dirt into words
that are identical to the terms out of which things
are sprung, that naming is recognition, not creation
or control.
I will now mention death,
because it is nice to hear about sad things
that have nothing to do with you,
or so Augustine confessed,
because a night of poetry is serious,
and what is more serious
than feeling inconvenienced?
The They says poetry is for pleasure,
which is why this is not a poem —
eloi, eloi — my guide…guide —
but an un-closable invisibility
that grace-haunts —
.
.
.
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