Because
The Spider
A Conversation
Moving Toward the Voice
Design for a Death
In the Laundromat
The Dog
Living
Rebuttal
End of the Day
Afterword
Before Sunset
It was a home like any other—
long driveway leading up to
a wraparound porch, windows
aligned one after another.
From the sidewalk you could see
the usual emblems:
manicured bushes, wooden fence
outlining a defined boundary.
Inside was for interpretation,
like bad fiction where characters
make passionate speeches
about the past. The wind
would bend the trees nearer
to the roots, where the birds listened
for prey and the raw words
of accusation, the tears falling
like little rocks into a pond,
like halos that could have been made
by a delicate toe. Remember?
But it was only a home, white
or ash-colored, though, if you
stood at a distance
and buried the voices
in your lower gut, it would return,
unstuck from time. I wish I could
summon the water
to run thru my fingers, then
I would touch my face, my eyes.
In the center of her belly, red bud of color.
Ask me if I was afraid
when I reached one handed, choosing
to cup the spider gently, to let it
scurry thru my fingers.
Ask me about the withering light,
late afternoon shadows setting the scene—
blood drawn from blood, something offered
to share with her defining mark.
I have caused pain in this life,
and I will listen when time
to memorize the facts uncontested—
they speak as we join together. I feel the sweat
layered upon my brow,
the clouds undulating like soft waves.
But I was careless, we know that now.
I had not considered the light
that tricks our eyes into assumption.
No black lids,
no pain to death—
a simple garden spider, simply weaving
her web before I intruded,
finishing her unfinished work.
I drove home relieved. Now ask me what I
wonder with each naked step I take.
My friend wants to talk about regret,
about the possibility of dying alone.
My dear friend, married so long,
his devotion reminding me how the
late light of day ignites the tips
of the trees, the peculiar sounds we
hear at dusk. There are times when
I’m lonely, but I have the safety
of a warm room, shelves of books,
icons of love or some such emotion,
memories of all I’ve left behind.
Late evening and I enter the useful
lethargy of night. I peak thru the
blinds. The moon is there, so what?
The trees bare in the cold light,
and so are the branches, the seasonal
release that captures the burn for
hidden roots. When the wind slithers
thru the leaves, I’ll know it’s autumn,
the crickets chirruping till morning.
Here is the truth: I fear the clarity
of death in place of this peaceful life.
after Rumi
Start with the basement,
you’ll learn something there.
Move the antique bed,
but don’t unroll the carpets.
Look at the holiday decorations.
Remember? You bought them
on sale at Montgomery Ward
before the kids were born.
I see your face, and I know
what they said. You knew me
before I acted like a saint.
There’s no reason for you to
believe me, but I’ve learned
about the sound of dogs
barking, what that sound means.
I learned how the earth shifts
and leaves cracks in the road,
impediments to every step
I don’t want to take.
It’s been three years, but
don’t worry, honey, I still see
you in the pictures in your
wallet. Can you do something?
Open the window. I want to
feel the heat of the sunlight
on my face. Remember how calm
we felt right before I leaned in
to kiss you for the first time?
I still remember. Like the blanket
you crocheted on my last
birthday, I kept everything
you gave me. Next time you come,
stand in the doorway until I notice.
I get scared sometimes,
and all it takes is a simple frame
of reference to feel like myself again.
From my desk I hear the rain,
a kind of irregular melody, but
familiar in that I know what it is.
If the sound were a touch, my
fingers would react first,
then shivering, then returning
to whatever I was doing before.
A car drives by the window,
my reverie of observation
interrupted. If I were home,
I wouldn’t be here, wishing I
was elsewhere, maybe walking
barefoot thru our yard, my feet
dirty and stained by the grass.
I used to drink from that hose,
the cold bitter taste, more
coppery, but I could be wrong.
I should protect my hands,
they carry the visible scars
and those I’ve chosen to deny.
The leaving of a place
precipitates the erosion
of memory, the flat stones
I would skip across the creek,
the water rings telling a story,
vanishing when they collide
with the muddy edges.
The crisis of each season
is that they can’t be stopped.
Weakness isn’t saying goodbye,
it’s the absence of a confession,
like reading a book with
pages unstitched from the spine.
Later, a blue night, same as
ever. I write to be sure it remains,
then turn off the light and
ready myself for sleep. Dawn
will bleed thru the window soon
enough. There’s no god in religion,
only echoes of a heartbeat now
truant. Move over heaven,
the moon requires no forgiveness.
The day after—
I wait for my comforter to dry,
hungover from last night’s drinking.
I read a book of poems,
and for me this is glorious, in that,
I can mouth the words
to each poem
without questioning the impulse.
Last night I celebrated
by drinking five Red Stripes
while listening to “Jungleland”
by Bruce Springsteen,
over and over,
which if you’ve heard it,
you know how long that song is.
And that was glorious too.
When I walked out on my last day,
mind fatigued from practicing restraint,
limp handshakes by way of thanks,
we wish you well,
my mother said to be sure
I don’t cartwheel with excitement
otherwise they might think
I’m depriving a village of an idiot.
My sweet mother,
who I love because she is right.
I would rather be honest
and an idiot
than inflicted with hate
toward the ones without
the courage to say,
Enough.
I don’t want to wonder what they’re doing,
whether they’re talking about me,
lying. I fear the unexpected call, though,
needless questions about
trackers and reports
and where is the flyer design
from March 2016?
As if they needed a reason.
Soon,
I’ll be able to sleep
thru the night,
and then I’ll let the new pain
that will come
exist in the future, out of history,
because maybe, I don’t know,
just maybe.
I followed the man thru the door.
We passed pens on either side
where dogs lunged and
barked at the perceived intruders.
He was in the last one, and after
he unlocked the gate, I watched
him shake and bare his teeth,
my face, my smell unrecognizable.
My parents had asked me
to pick him up, drive him home,
and make sure he was fed. They
told me he had nipped two people.
I bent down at the knees,
offered a hand, fingers curled
inward, awaiting the strike.
He descended slowly, head held
low, sniffing my skin. He closed
the distance, pausing between
my legs. I stilled my body,
unsure if he was ready to return.
Then it was confirmed, a click
in the synapses of memory.
He looked up and licked my face,
burying his snout in the hollow
of my neck, the wagging of his tail,
lethargy dissipating, the fear
vanquished that he had been left
behind. I honored his embrace.
The rain thrown endlessly from the sky,
light floating on the surface
of the road. And when all is settled,
and the birds chirp their return,
heat rises in a heavy steam.
Where has it traveled? Who’s to know
if the dampness of my skin
is not a blessing from the hereafter?
It’s midnight now, time to ease
this rumination. Time to bare my feet
for the night and the moon, the shine of dreams.
Death is a surprise when
you learn that you’re dying—
a certain hour of sadness
that leaves me feeling violent.
A train calls in the distance,
something coming near,
though, I’m unafraid to wait
for the future I’ve become—
I’m tired of trying to follow
the definition of a dream.
I ask hoping to live simply,
to watch the ways in which
water flows around the stones.
What will it mean when
the train departs for tomorrow?
There’s an urgency to live,
a motion of living, but I feel like
a tourist, a reflection run
muddied by the rain falling
outside my window — the curse
of life like a gift of watching
colors fade over time.
I would never exist if I didn’t
let the whiskey burn my throat.
After I come home from work,
I change out of my clothes
and still my voice behind the
locked door. I survived
another one, the light outside
the window the color of
old teeth. Time is a blade
sharpened by the skin, though,
courage is the restraint
in not twisting the wrist
and applying pressure. A spider
spins a web in the corner
of the room, above the book-
shelf, and I let him be.
I’m not afraid to prepare
food in an empty house.
The mirror simply tells a story
I’ve seen many versions
of. My special time is
right before I sleep, sound
unravelling the threads
in my mind — who cares about
the body that fills the chair?
Fear for me now
is waking up
and forgetting
the pain. Without
sensation,
the memories
of nights alone,
listening for
music outside
the window.
What of the mind
and the body
as the spiritual
centers of everything
I have defined—
love as charity,
or so I think,
because who
can love a man
afraid of himself?
And here I am
fearing death
without having
lived my dreams.
I am no tree—
stoic and confident,
letting the wind
caress its tips.
I am the skin
covering my eyes,
falling impassively.
Walking streets,
I stare into the faces
of the withered
lives of all
we have amputated
from empathy.
After I close the book,
who will witness
the freedom of my death?
Off the shaded porch
the dog runs to and fro
in play of the sacred game.
The weather has calmed,
smoke lingers on the wind.
I close As I Lay Dying
and make an assumption—
the humor in life
is a weakened tree branch,
snapping as I fall to my knees.
In the secret forest of charity
the dog finds an unknown smell.
Darkness not the impediment,
for the leaves dance like the birds
and the sun alights their swaying tips.
Josh Mahler lives and writes in Virginia. His poems have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Tar River Poetry, Quarter After Eight, South Dakota Review, The Louisville Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Potomac Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology, from Texas Review Press, and elsewhere.
