Bruce Who Reads, Gabrielle Who Knits by John Grey

Bruce reads the poems of Tennyson,
a half inch from her ear,

careful, slow, but exalted nevertheless,
so she'll feel the presence of the poem
like he feels her presence,

in him, in his voice,
and she smiles warm but awkwardly

like she's The Lady of Shallot
hearing about herself for the
very first time.

Why Tennyson, that long dead Englishman,
white-bearded, whiter-haired,
and musty on the page.

For "she weaveth steadily
and little other care hath she."

And Bruce is not about
to tell her that.

Animal Sleep by John Grey

I’ve dreamed the quiet gather
of petting zoo lambs
and the fierce blood roar
of the pouncing tiger.
I’ve owned every breed of dog in my sleep,
even a pig that grunted in English:
“The other white meat is llama.”
In truth, with head on pillow,
I need to get away from people.
What’s it matter if
I’m in the deep woods all alone
and the bear threatens attack.
Who cares that the swamp
is full of crocodiles.
The beasts can speak
so I have my conversation.
Many will bite
so I can catch my rest
delightfully on edge.
They growl, they howl,
their fur bristles,
their beaks peck,
their mood changes
with the first glimpse
of an untouched deer carcass.
And, best of all,
when I awaken,
there’s not a one of them beside me,
not even the family cat.
No scars, no shedding,
no waste, no stains.
Just this flesh, these bones,
slow mesh of daylight and my head.
Thoughts replace imaginings.
That’s all there is to the beast in me.

The Art of Being No Help by John Grey

somewhere
someone
is making another do
something
they don't want to do
and the thought
of that coercion
guts the landscape
strips it down
to raw wildness
too bestial for
my sensibilities
as my fear caves in
to wind and cold
and suggestion
my pathetic protests
shrunk to footsteps
cranking up
the neighborhood
with dumb echo
and I do it so well
my powerlessness
becomes religion
and the air smells
like both surrender
and escape
and I don't care
for one and
get high on
the other

- originally published in Palace Corbie #5 (1994)

Bomber Man by John Grey

she said he flew bombers
tenderly making love
to Europe with explosives

back home
she didn’t know the details
of death
just its way with people

she waited
and knitting needles
scratched her fingers

he returned
talking Paris in the spring
not alone in the sky
bending and weaving
through a crucifix of lights

but she sees missions in his eyes
worries when he goes to the store
that this time the traffic cop
the checkout girl the cab driver
might return his fire

Mystery Eyes by John Grey

I want eyes
black and deep
as a well.
You wouldn't just look at me.
You'd drop a stone
down where I'm coming from
and listen, listen hard.
Maybe there'd be a distant splash,
maybe a thud,
maybe nothing
because there is no bottom.
I want the eyes
of the fort
that doesn't surrender,
the eyes of the clouds
that no blue sky can break.
Hieroglyphic eyes,
dead language eyes,
dead eyes even
if that's what it takes.
I don't want eyes
that open like your
funky fairy stories,
that you can read,
consume like candy floss.
At best, I'll be a blur
fogging up your need to focus.
At worst, once you know me,
what's to know.