Eryn Green

Achilles Mourning the Death of Patroclus


                    *


                                It was time


that was the tenderness—still light yes


& all our breakfast


at once—at home now


I understand how


you became so sad—brushes so cold


I looked out at the snow—light—still     (how


time adapts to the breathing


of the born and dying body)       a party


you said—warren across the street


in abandoned complexes—color dancing—and I stopped looking


for patterns in secret, opposite. Just kind of gave up on it


breaks my heart. Thought I should tell you—put you in a field


and it turns green—I’ve seen it, been there just before


and after passing—and even though nothing


is missing (today) I know I feel something


circling underneath every crow’s nest


I go to sleep. Descartean vortices


coordinate wings—can’t say


other than I mean—I dreamt I saw you


               in the back gardens


the day my daughter starts swaying with the lyres—dancing


                                                  white phosphorescent       


                               fine wires—


my incorrigible shaking


hands in the morning. A curse


and a prayer. So thank you


no one tells you                                                                      you’d understand


the body confused


by breath at last—thought


for so long       my


own                then proven so


deftly not so. This insistence


of world holding here in us daily


a kind of echo, rental, promise


of real transit, potential—and death


just takes your breath away


because it obeys


rules? We get it. Darkness waves


& the unknown fidgets. Certain things you have to be


this close to the animal to understand—how a foal knows


to kick at a menacing rustle, never


glimpsing danger before. Or


what is breaking in us—the language


of reeds, the way your body


lets go of me, the air in the room


echo too, some far song


along series—what kills me


is our chances anyway—and the police, you’d say—my own home


catching morning in a bright reflection


like I’ve never known


danger either—the world


still green. No stopping really


like robins in east siding, a whole


new day eloping                            I’m still sorry


a welcome home party. Anew—Hey, Achilles!
 

It’s ok. Whatever adversity

         is of needs             

                              must break

                  if in the line   

                                   if we—

                 given away

 

Lore


Just look
at the light
of this hour
—lore
of headstones, rooftops
the way telescope antennae arrange
through chimneystacks
like real ocean masts
in France these days, the birds
know at last—    
                           —we can’t stay
in the tutelage of alleyways
the next horizon already
underway. We can’t leave either
our beautiful faces to the mass
so, urgency—so color already
in pinwheels—increased day by day. I had wanted to show you
an opening in attention, a way in the world arranged
toward happy-making, real
as it is to me, fields
of my little girl, finally
returning, what I had asked for, singing
and I was lightly at sleep
at everything


Eryn Green ’s first book, Eruv, won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize, and his work has appeared in Jubilat, Colorado Review, The New York Times, and elsewhere. He is Assistant Professor–in–Residence at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, where he lives in the desert with his wife, Hanna Andrews, and their daughter, Aya.