The mermaids singing

Today's poem:

A Certain Kind of Eden
by Kay Ryan

It seems like you could, but you can't go back and pull
the roots and runners and replant.
It's all too deep for that.
You've overprized intention,
have mistaken any bent you're given
for control. You thought you chose
the bean and chose the soil.
You even thought you abandoned
one or two gardens. But those things
keep growing where we put them—
if we put them at all.
A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.
Even the one vine that tendrils out alone
in time turns on its own impulse,
twisting back down its upward course
a strong and then a stronger rope,
the greenest saddest strongest
kind of hope.

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Just woke up from an unexpected 2 hour nap, so thoughts on The Pitt finale will have to wait. Here's today's poem:

Materials for a Gravestone Rubbing

I have long wanted to be starlight in spring
and the late snow that lingers there, coming down
at Harpers Ferry over the river or gathered
on a windowsill on third street in Brooklyn
when I was twenty-two — the potpourri
of sky the wind carries after a storm.
The gray darkening on a far ridge. If you are reading this
there is still a way. I can take your smooth palm in mine
and lead you toward a distant city and a night
when you were on the mountain and dreaming of the other world
and we can walk together past the pre-war homes
converted now to low-rent apartments for college students
or workers come in from long days on a road crew,
coveralls draped over the backs of kitchen chairs
and the light swaying just so. We can go on —
along the cracked sidewalks above the train tracks
that can't exist again even as the grasses come up between them
and look through a fog and a single pair of headlights
making definite beams in the material cold.
No moonlight to get netted up in on the surface of the water
no traffic at this hour just the scraps of paper blown
into gutters and the electric hum of streetlights,
a few voices, which almost walk like footfall down alleys
overgrown with briars and creeping vines, their crude
latticework against the brick and the exhale
of a bartender on a smoke break and the smoke
which still drifts. Now it must be all worn through
but then it was barely remarkable though I stop
to look back at the homes and at snow melt on roads
the flat glitter on the black road, the moiré pattern
yet to be captured by language — and for a minute believe
in something as my stepfather believed in the smell of fire
whenever he left in the middle of the night
and returned before dawn and spoke to no one, didn’t
wake anyone up. Sometimes I feel that alone,
that pure, as if looking back at myself
through the scrim of time and you are there
standing in our kitchen at this hour and I can almost
hear you and the first singing caught-up there in the back
of your throat. Lately I've stopped worrying about the end.
Each day my hand is smaller on your shoulders. New birds
still return and the hillsides green all around, the stars
have traveled over the horizon and in the blink
of an eye you are here — grape-vine charcoal in your hand;
little hyphen I have become.

--Matthew Wimberley

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