Body Of Winter - Brian Prousky

Body Of Winter by Brian Prousky

Book excerpt

Since I’m Adrift From The Principles

Since I’m adrift from the principles

of worms and roots and anxious seeds,

of green stalks with tall aspirations,

since I can’t squeeze bleeding earth out of my pen

or raindrops with dark pupils,

since I can’t stretch my arms in the style of a waking bear

and tear flesh off a trembling morning,

since I’m a dry toad with a congealed tongue,

every daydream brings me to a place

where a pale sky shows through

a fading outline of the moon

and rushing black water

winds between gray lacquered rocks and smooth stumps,

seeping in marsh-beds of wild grass

and gurgling in mud.

I admit I can’t decide

if they’re imagined or familiar to me,

the bulrushes with indignant attitudes,

the deceptive tiny bugs

who dissolve in puddles,

the patient copper hawks who glide for hours

before diving at snakes,

the milkweeds with pursed lips and full cheeks

who explode in feathery tirades.

In every place I inhabit I strain to hear

the music of chipmunks

in squeaky trolly wheels,

swans drying their wings

in clapping blinds,

claws scratching bark

in wallpaper being stripped,

stampeding buffalo

in roaring subway tunnels.

I have come to realize

there is nothing more important

than to remember

the land that bore you desires your demise,

the bird who guards your nest and brings you your first worm

is a buzzard who dreams of harvesting your flesh,

the otter who guides you safely downstream

is a traitor leading you down a path of ambush

and the song of a cricket lulling you to sleep

is a summons to your predators.

I have come to realize

there is nothing more regrettable

than to forget

the surrender of a cornered deer

and drowning bee,

the tears of a hooked fish,

the pleading eye of a dry sunflower,

the scream of a weed when you pull up its roots

and blood in a lake

when you slice through its skin.

Your Love Grew A Tree Inside Me

Your love grew a tree inside me.

Roots grew into my legs and I stood resolute by you.

Branches grew into my arms and I embraced you.

Leaves grew into my fingers and I stroked your face.

Bark grew into my skin and I was impenetrable

and protected you from harm.

A canopy grew into my hair and spread over us

and kept us dry when it rained.

Fruit grew from me and we were never hungry.

Seeds fell from me and other tress grew around us

and we were never lonely.

In the winter, leaves fell from me and I made you a bed

and blanket and kept you warm.

And because I was a tree and had no heart,

there was nothing to break

and our love was forever.

Heading West

I saw black trains

that sped through blue air,

yellow fields bent by wind,

combines that flattened them.

I saw men in blue suits,

heard artless descriptions of sex

followed by admiring words

like, “Way to go!”

I saw swarms of black insects

like floating caves.

I saw small cities

thoughtlessly constructed

like children’s blocks

spilled on pavement.

I saw clothes on clotheslines

and women standing by them.

They stared at blue air

with ink in their eyes.

You And Me

You and me, free,

you and me.

You and me, like geometry,

you and me.

You and me, intuitively,

you and me.

You and me, a history,

you and me.

You and me, fadingly,

you and me.

I Wanted To Paint Like Sonia Delaunay

I looked out my window one morning

at the sun and sea.

The sun was orange. The sea was blue.

I ran onto a dock and untethered a boat.

The boat was red with a white sail.

It belonged to someone else.

In that moment I didn’t care.

I wanted to see simple shapes.

I wanted to paint like Sonia Delaunay.

An orange circle,

a blue square,

a white triangle,

a red rectangle,

a whole world.

My Love is a Striped Little Bird

My love is a striped little bird

have you heard

lightly she lands on a leaf

she’s quickly sated on opinions stated

so carefully I choose each word

My love flies in my window

you know

flutters beneath my sheets

her chirping is sweet but always repeats

I’m moving a bit too slow

My love is more practical than me

you see

building us a cozy nest

twigs and leaves she twists and weaves

the while I reflect and rest

My love will perch on my shoulder

I’ve told her

to look back at from where we came

because when she does she doesn’t complain

as much about growing older

My love is a striped little bird

have you heard

singing with the Sunday choir

if I want to hear her I come sit near her

high on a telephone wire

In My Twenties

In my twenties

the forest was my Siren.

I removed its green veil,

saw its trunks blush and breathe

with nervous excitement,

felt the soft touch of its moss,

heard the wind sawed by its branches

like violins sawed by bows.

In my twenties

an Elm seduced me

with its whore’s body

and millions of our offspring

hung on threads

and blood sprayed

from broken arteries

when our offspring detached

and collided with earth.

In my twenties

I wrote in a house

without a door.

Nature made it

an abandoned cocoon.

My cot was where a caterpillar

learned it was a womb

and split open.

My mirror was where a butterfly

admired its new wings,

rubbed disbelief from its eyes.

And where I too waited

for pain to change me

or tear me apart.

In My Thirties

Still the green stalks thicken and still they rise

up stakes,

drawing what they can

from the black earth and swollen sun.

We pity them,

the thickening stalks without intuition,

striving regardless,

too weak to hold up their lulling tomatoes

or escape from us

preventing their spines from snapping.

They are—because we made them so—

the purest examples of our mastery over the land

and, as such, we are their parents

while our own children would rather

snap in half

than live for a moment

with our hands on their backs

holding them upright.

In 1994 I became a dragonfly for

the smell of orange tomatoes and wild basil,

flying low through ticklish leaves,

disturbed by nobody and disturbing nothing.

I became a dragonfly so on my terms only

I could see my children and breathe fire on enemies

unrecognizable to them.

In sunlight still

an old dog pants and still

his tongue sweats soaking a deck-board.

I hover around him,

sometimes eating the flies that patrol his coat,

sometimes not.

I am my present form

so as not to compromise any longer.

Where I eat and sleep,

who I listen to and watch,

mostly the tomatoes and wild basil,

that is my business now.

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