First Place Winner, November 2001 InterBoard Poetry Competition

Poetry

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Poetry

InterBoard Poetry Competition

First Place Winner, November 2001

SAILOR, DOCTOR THESE DREAMS
Hannah Craig
(The Sharpened Word)

Hip-high, the shrugged waters beat and ebb,
stopped from retreat by six inches of ice.
And you among the dead, pull wounded
free of sloes and muck, send breath
into the empty shallow bowls.
Nurses beg you to fall back as soldiers
lift from bank to bank.

Your wife dips her thumb into Kvasir's brass mug,
says your gray name into the corners of the room
where it hangs and echoes back.
Verdenal. Verdenal. Mieux vaut tard que jamais.
Will she wait in the lobby to forgive your passion
or return by boat, blown with the fine dust of grief?

Better you should fall by way of Lisbon bulls,
by Spanish whores who fawn and fatten
on culls of cheese and beads of wine.
Better even by the sea with salt crystals in your hair,
with sun and his hand upon your back,
touching in secret. A cloth goes up between you;
but beneath, around and through,
the moth-worried yarn gives way to touch.

The butterflies have eaten through the blinds,
through winter wool, kept habits, wedding shifts
and winding cloth. You remember Munich
in May, multivoltine swallowtails unfolding
from the cherry trees. Pupae whispered distress,
caught between bodies. He held your head
and cried with southern slur, one vowel
into your mouth.

In Starnbergersee, a Seneca nun gave daily readings
of the bones and wrists, the shapes of souls,
bronze whispers of bound spirits. “Don't ask,”
she said so darkly, as the bones tumbled
against rock-tanned sinew. “You vanish both.
You are not immortal. Love is an affliction,
how the spirit moves in venial recrimination.
Give me a dime.”

On mine-landing your body opens, spread by shrapnel,
and a ghost emerges wet onto the battlefield.
The red moon is too cold to dry wings, too weak
to spread and burn patterns onto limbs. You call a name
but he cannot hear. Miles away he sinks down
with his poetry. Will he examine every star tonight
for the one that you touch too, the one that guides
between smoke and flame?

Judge Joan Houlihan's comment: “This oblique, fairy tale-like, narrative gives emotional weight to its plot details with wonderfully original images and phrases ('and you among the dead,' 'a cloth goes up between you; but beneath, around and through, the moth-worried yarn gives way to touch,' 'butterflies have eaten through the blinds,' 'a ghost emerges wet onto the battlefield,' etc., etc.) and casts a spell, tells a secret history. The craft is admirable--effective line breaks, use of slant rhyme and consistent authority of voice. Especially gorgeous: 'He held your head / and cried with southern slur, one vowel / into your mouth.' Lines spoken by the 'Seneca nun' very powerful, especially with the ending: 'Give me a dime.'”