It is 3:10 ᴀᴍ
And I’m
Wrestling with Hashem
Over matters of love
And propriety,
Over poetry
And the small matter
Of whether he exists.
Hashem states
It is of little consequence
And I say, Hashem,
People fight and die,
Live, love, kill and
Become kind
In your name
And Hashem argues
Atheists do the same
But are, at least,
Honest in their motives.
3:10
I Love You Unadorned
I love you
Unadorned
And that you are
In sunlight
And air
Not even between us
In clothes
Simple
You and I all
The decoration
You desire.
I Will Write You A Poem
Come to me tonight,
And I will write you a poem
To carry with you
In your body,
On your skin.
My fingers will write it
On the palm of your hand,
My lips shall speak to your lips
in silent verse,
My eyes
Will show you the seat of love
From which all poetry comes
And in my voice
You will hear the sound of my soul
Singing your name
In words that come to you
As starlight,
Sweet wind through the trees,
The brush of grass,
The sound of your feet.
Book
There was that very special book
of poetry
left to me by my mother.
One hundred and twelve years old
and a quilted cover,
Fields and Poe,
Tennyson, Shelly
and an inscription on the inside cover leaf
by a woman no-one I know
had ever met.
She had given it to her love
on the occasion of his birthday.
Twenty one he was
and, if I am to believe what is written within,
quite the handsome lad.
She draws his attention to page forty-one,
and a poem by Tennyson about a flower
plucked and examined
during a walk,
ephemeral beauty destroyed by too close a love,
too vulgar a desire
too mean a possession.
When Did You Enter Me?
Look at you up in the sky
Shining, pulling oceans
Back and forth,
The flow of blood
Through my heart,
Thoughts in my head.
When was it you
Entered my genes,
Became part of me,
Wrapped around my soul,
Filled my veins with liquid
Moonlight?
When did my
Comings and goings,
Ebb and flow
Fall under your gravity?
When did I discover
I saw better by
Moonlight?
Look at you up in the sky
Shining, so bright
Mars hides
In your light,
Blushes at your beauty,
Paralyzed.
Ashes
I still go to call you.
When the door opens
Rise, run to greet you.
So I took your number from the phone
and now look for it.
I lock the door,
So it won’t open unbidden
Expecting to see you.
We tossed your ashes to the river.
I stood downwind,
Poured them into my hand,
Threw them high.
They flecked across the moon,
They mixed with the new grey in my hair,
Covered my face.
I took a breath
Deep.
Your ashes
Taste of salt.
Cleaning Up
A poem for Lee. This is how it was SUPPOSED to go.
So what was there to do?
He was gone, and so
there was the cleaning up.
The dispersal of goods,
sorting and separating,
matching
memories and mementos.
But he was meticulous and
everything was in its place.
So there was very little of him
over which my hands could grieve.
Nothing to keep my mind company
until it was time to do the laundry.
I could have put it into a bag,
placed it in the garbage,
left it at a thrift store
dropped it in a fire
sent it heavenward.
Instead, I washed it all,
hanging shirts that once
took his form, carefully folding
underwear, one pair of the dungarees stained from kneeling in the garden,
shorts that once showed his knees,
knees stained by Earth and Clay.
Each put away, and when that was done,
there was nothing left
but the sorting and pairing of his socks.
Nearly Dying of Exposure
For Lee. Be well my dear one. You were the font of all that is good and right in this world, the genesis of all that is beautiful and the wellspring of all that in creation is joy. I will see you later. I will.
On our way
home from the beach
We stop beside the car
For you to change,
Backside to the passenger door,
I hold a blanket in front of you
As you slip off your top
And drop a loose
Dress over your shoulders
Over your belly,
Mid-calf,
Neglecting to button the bodice
So you dry in the air.
And below the blanket
Your bathing suit
Bottom hits the ground.
As I drive the highway home
Still wet,
You place your feet on the dashboard,
Pull open your top just a bit more
Pull up the hem of your dress over your hips
and fan yourself dry
On the car seat
Spread out in the sun.
I almost hit a wall.
I almost hit a tree.
Bless you.
I Believe in You
(A poem for Lee)
I believe in you.
You.
Like I believe
The Sun rises each morning and
The moon shades from light to dark then
To light again.
I believe in you
Like I believe in
The laws of Nature.
I am as sure of you as
Water runs downhill,
Cold contracts,
Gasses expand,
An object in motion stays in motion…
I am as sure of you as I am
Spring will come again and again.
I believe in you like light.
But the Son of Man or Respite
I wrote this a long time ago. I won an award for it. I picked it for contests because I don’t like it. never did. But other people seem to. That’s fine. A mystery to me, but I’m ok with that.
But, it occurred to me, today, now… now I get this. How odd is that? To write something but not get it for nearly thirty years?
I want to lay my head
in the curve of someone’s lap.
Down
on someone who isn’t going anywhere.
I want to rest
and close my eyes
and be blest
by the stroking of my hair.
I want to feel the skin
against my cheek and lips
of someone who will let me in,
someone who won’t throw me off.
I don’t care
who or what they are
or how it appears in others’ sight.
I’m not asking for a year
or even a night,
I just want to lay my head
in the curve of a lap
of someone who isn’t going anywhere.
(Published in The Phoenix and the Dragon as well as several anthologies.)
Adam Byrn Tritt 