pittance

pittance \ PIT-ns \  , noun;
1. a small amount or share.
2. a small amount or share.
3. a scanty income or remuneration.

Pity so much that is small is overlooked
the paperclip the shadow the strand of hair
that tickles your shoulder the way I
tickled the hairs at your neck do you 
remember that or the way our fingers 
touched the way notes are passed secrets 
exist at the rims of our fingers and who 
we've kissed and how and where and who 
was near that bartender that one time
she knew in that small way she tipped
her head to look away such small things
can be so important pity these moments
pity those moments gone by pity
small numbers that represent years
those small numbers represent years
three sixty five is not enough and yet pity
it would never have been enough.

quincunx

quincunx \KWING-kuhngks, KWIN-\, noun: 
1. an arrangement of five objects, as trees, in a square or rectangle, one at each corner and one in the middle.
2. Botany. an overlapping arrangement of five petals or leaves, in which two are interior, two are exterior, and one is partly interior and partly exterior.


If I am partly interior and partly
exterior, what does that mean for the trees?
Sure, they live longer; their skin 
needs to be that tough. They know it isn't 
safe to reveal their beating hearts though 
they are pumping more blood
than you or I. And each leaf
that falls from their branches is more
than a loss. They cannot even stoop
to pick them up again. These parts
lay on the ground and disintegrate
and they cannot even watch. And then, 
from within them, they must feel
new ones sprout, push themselves out,
glittering and soft. None the same and yet
all of them known. And the green
would make the tree weep, if it only could.

gibbous

gibbous \ GIB-uhs \  , adjective;
1. Astronomy.  (of a heavenly body) convex at both edges, as the moon when more than half full.
2. humpbacked


A humpbacked moon does turn 
its back on us at night, huddles 
its shoulders. a dull shade and a grin, 
while he hides the bright bulb.
What the sun must think of him: 
a lover no longer known. She shines 
because there is nothing else to do, 
nothing else for it. Were they not
always doomed? For instance, 
it is always the moon with you. 
And river water. And the eyes 
of street lamps and so many stars. 

The Return
by Frances Richey
What do you say when you've forgotten how the grass smells, married to the dark soil crumbling in your hands? When the sun makes a bed for you to lie in? When a voice you've never heard has missed you, singing down your bones-- it's taken so long to get here. Now I'm breathing in the mountains as if I'd never left. And when I go inside I'm surprised to see a lime green worm has landed on my shorts, inching his way across a strange white country. He stops and rises, leaning out of himself-- a tiny periscope peering from the glow of the underdream where there are no symbols for death. He looks around. I place my index finger at the tip of what I guess to be his head, though I don't see an eye or an ear, or the infinitesimal feet as he crawls across my palm-- a warmer planet. Lately I've wondered what hand guides my way when I am lost. I can't feel him though I see him rise again, survey the future, flat and broken into five dead ends. I curl my fingers to make a cup and carry him like a blessing to the garden-- What will happen next is a mystery-- to be so light in the world, to leave no tracks.

Souvenir
by Beth Ann Fennelly
Though we vacationed in a castle, though I rode you hard one morning to the hum of bees that buggered lavender, and later we shared gelato by a spotlit dome where pigeons looped like coins from a parade-- we weren’t transported back to newlyweds. We only had a week, between new jobs, we both were pinched with guilt at leaving Claire. When, in our most expensive, most romantic meal, you laid your sunburned hand upon your heart, it was just to check the phone was on. When the trip was good as over--when the train would take us overnight to Rome, the flight would take us home--I had the unimportant moment I keep having. I wonder if we choose what we recall? The train was unromantic, smoky. We found a free compartment, claimed the two bench seats, and eyed the door. Italians who peered in and saw your shoes, my auburn hair, our Let’s Go: Rome, soon found another car. And we were glad. But then, reluctantly, two couples entered, settled suitcases on laddered racks, exchanged some cautious greetings, chose their spots. Then each one turned to snacks and magazines. The miles scrolled by like film into its shell. Night fell. Each took a toothbrush down the hall. Returned. Murmured to the one he knew. The man beside the window pulled the shade. We each snapped off our light, slunk down until our kneecaps almost brushed. And shut our eyes. Entwined I found us, waking in the dark. Our dozen interwoven knees, when jostled, swayed, corrected, swayed the other way. Knuckles of praying hands were what they seemed. Or trees in old growth forests, familiarly enmeshed, one mass beneath the night wind’s breath. Or death, if we are good, flesh among flesh, without self consciousness, for once. Husband, five years husband, you slept, our fellow travelers slept, scuttling through black time and blacker space. As we neared the lighted station, I closed my eyes. Had I been caught awake, I would have moved.

Civilization
by Carl Phillips
There's an art    to everything. How the rain means    April and an ongoingness like    that of song until at last it ends. A centuries-old    set of silver handbells that once an altar boy swung,    processing...You're the same    wilderness you've always been, slashing through briars,    the bracken of your invasive    self. So he said,    in a dream. But the rest of it—all the rest—    was waking: more often than not, to the next    extravagance. Two blackamoor    statues, each mirroring the other, each hoisting    forever upward his burden of hand-painted, carved-by-hand    peacock feathers. Don't    you know it, don't you know I love you, he said. He was    shaking. He said: I love you. There's an art    to everything. What I've    done with this life, what I'd meant not to do,  or would have meant, maybe, had I understood, though I have  no regrets. Not the broken but  still-flowering dogwood. Not the honey locust, either. Not even    the ghost walnut with its non-branches whose    every shadow is memory,    memory...As he said to me once, That's all garbage    down the river, now. Turning, but as the utterly lost—    because addicted—do:    resigned all over again. It only looked, it—    It must only look like leaving. There's an art    to everything. Even    turning away. How eventually even hunger    can become a space to live in. How they made    out of shamelessness something    beautiful, for as long as they could.

incondite

incondite\ in-KON-dit \ , adjective;

1. Ill-constructed; unpolished: incondite prose.
2. Crude; rough; unmannerly.


Innocent, inconstant combat: a friend
follows a blood trail through her kitchen
a torn orange peel on the counter
a closet door ajar, ominous.
I picture this at a table while my family plays cards
holding at least twelve in my hand.
I fiddle with the corners as if petting the feathers
of a bird, only these ones click and they could never 
take flight. They would fall to the floor, splay
and flip and the jumble of colors and numbers 
would no longer make sense. Can you imagine 
such a thing? Your clothes lain across your bed, wondering
if their fingers had touched them, had they 
put them to their faces and breathed
as if the clean scent could act as chloroform
wanting at last to drift into a peaceful sleep,
pretend for a few unconscious moments that such a bed
could be theirs, such a home, like when they were children
who could go outside, leave their lawn without
snagging their skin on crude spirals of barbed wire,
and the dog at their heels was their dog and the sound 
of their mother calling them home was sweet.