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.
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Review of Bruce Bond's For the Lost Cathedral
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Sibyl—Poem in Eight Syllables
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Inside the Room of the Room of John Wayne
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Introduction // Sentences // Secret Message
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from the Book of Minutes
Gemma Gorga, trans. Sharon Dolin
Achilles Mourning the Death of Patroclus // Lore
Eryn Green