Passageway
Hands are not Poetry in Motion
Wishful
excuse me, but if you could
The winter trees are spring loaded. My head tallies
naked tree, naked tree. Naming a condition
relieves so little unfamiliar roads, pearl-gray skies
even the red bricks of row homes
know what comes next. Naked tree,
naked tree. Stippled are the twigs
a hawk spirals a home, naked heart,
spell check changes my name to Sharpen—
What will safeguard me from loss or dispute?
There are rules for pruning
a tree’s leader branch, naked vessel,
the bronze of your skin, two beauty spots,
the sway of your fingers in case of emergency.
We turn ourselves around and over
the Francis Scott Key Bridge. The river unfolds
into something bigger. This could be a lie.
I’m afraid to love and lose you. The light turns
green seventeen flights
above the Patapsco River. The impulse to hurl
oneself from high places is called l’appel du vide,
the call of the void—still—
I reach out to touch your hand.
Hands are not Poetry in Motion
They are white flags raised
at one's superiors. They suppress
little judgments. Impound the heart
within the rib cage. Press a body
away from a body. Redrape what’s been
fingered open. They pretend a body
away. They doubt having touched
the face of love. Twisted.
They are not used to
standing up for themselves.
They lean on one another
as in prayer not to damsel one’s lips
leaking words for help or home.
They do not clamp down
on the snoring—
like an opus, next to them.
I asked you to tell me that’s not
an egret spread wide like legs
at the foot of the curb
even if it’s whiter than a lie
I want us to be more
than a leaf of paper
feathers banded around a hat
tip toward something
bodily upright like citizens
or animals let me raise
my winged my broken waiting
for an answer to bend me small
words I’m supposed to say when
someone opens a door for me
when someone tells me Yes.
That’s rubbish—
so I can ask you again to tell
me just tell me how
we’re going to be okay
love me the way you read
every instruction manual
from hair shaving kit
to pop-up canopy
if you could love me
the way your right foot vee’s
out 38 degrees or so
how missionary-like
you receive me
allowing me to harbor
if you could continue
translating my love
when i say what do
you want
to eat means I
like the way your
fingernails bend under
you let your knuckles
guide the knife
you prepare more
than outcomes
asking what I prefer
knowing I relish
what I am
knowing what I’m
getting into I mean
if you could
continue assuring
me with your chin
hooding my head
the curve of my
breasts form fitted
to your barrel
your guns
knowing two arms
above my head does not
mean I surrender
I have no right to
ask you for more
than I’m willing
to give myself
like hot air rising from
the hot pavement
in wavy shifting ways
like an ant teetering
while carrying a gnat
two times its length
they appear as one
Shareen K. Murayama is the author of two poetry books Housebreak (Bad Betty Press, 2022) and Hey Girl, Are You in the Experimental Group (Harbor Editions, 2022). She’s a Japanese American, Okinawan American poet and educator, a Pushcart Prize nominee, as well as Best Small Fictions & Best of the Net nominee. Recently featured in Poets & Writers Debut 5 Over 50 Authors, she lives in Honolulu and supports the #litcommunity @AmBusyPoeming.
