Read an Excerpt
Your Moon
By Ralph Angel, William Olsen New Issues Poetry & Prose
Copyright © 2014 Ralph Angel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-936970-23-0
CHAPTER 1
The Wind Will Carry Us
for Abbas Kiarostami
Someone has been sleeping. Someone's
heading nowhere.
This is the winding road. Then there's a solitary
tree, and after that, nothing,
nothing.
If someone asks, say I'm
looking for buried treasure. Such a lovely
village. You've hidden it so well.
I haven't hidden anything. Our ancestors
built it here.
See that blue window, near the lady
sitting on the steps. Let's
go higher. I will
show you. Here's your
room.
We have a sack of apples. We have
fresh bread. You won't
get another chance
like this. On judgment day
it's obvious. I'm used to it. I work
here. If you stay a while longer, you'll
get used to it, too.
When I was little, and someone
told me a secret, I always wanted to reveal it.
And, eventually, I did.
If you come into my house
oh kind one, bring me a lamp
and a window
through which I can watch the crowd
in the happy street."
I'm sorry to disturb you.
You're welcome.
This is my normal route.
Three Minutes and Sixty Years
A mere
shrug of atmosphere—
and then the fog
coughing up some buildings, and then
the smell of rain just inside
the door—
puts a naked eye
to things, and makes them
beautiful.
Losing
your phone is like
losing your mind. It's like
a fountain—
the door's wide open—
the words
tall buildings make
speak mostly to pigeons
and styrofoam
cups.
Get out.
Get out of my cab
he said. Wake up.
It's different.
Nude with Pebbles
Flowers fall. And I noticed
before I stood again and folded up the paper and rinsed my cup
their artifice. I myself
was fifty when I murdered, I don't know.
I'm here to break again my knuckles
or break them back. I'm here
to hate the wall and love especially the contours
of the coast and a city
further south.
For several moments more a deer looked at me
and ate some shrubs. And overhead
a raven
just like ravens do.
You are the shakes
and rhythm. You are the way that you've not seen before
that brings you
to yourself
again. A feeling digs you up, and look, the air is hung
with pictures. A nude
with pebbles. A nude with glass. A nude
unwrapping bandages.
The subject is a non-thing. I breathed
the sweetness of the air. Jasmine I could smell
and eucalyptus, olive trees
and cypress, an iron gate.
We are in our robes again, you won't remember.
You have found
a chicken sandwich. You are plotting out
your day. Maybe you'll go swimming. The bottom's
soft and old
and further out
the fields are screaming. Lazy yellow fields of sunflowers
in this dry heat, and you alone out there,
or rather, us.
Venetian Blind
At first you couldn't care less
but later on told me that you hadn't been out
except after dark
for a couple years or so.
I can't sleep
you said. Let me lay my head
upon you.
Me too
I said. I'm always hungry. The cafe wasn't
very full. When your
mind's made up
there's no one
talking.
But that's just it
you said. I
wasn't.
You're the Rub
Murmured in loneliness, round and round.
Let's not go inside. The cliffs drop off, and the ocean's
a friend—on the boardwalk
enough people alone
have died.
So relax, take your feet
off—nobody's
missing. There are many parts
of the mind. On that old
open day we let out our long green grass. A night's passed
and you expected it
to be there.
You're the rub—the love
that loves the love. I like especially the puddles
and your wire. I like your mud.
I like your part
of it.
Chinese Umbrella
You're right
of course about the ordinary emotions. The larger
our hearts were the more tranquil
the flight. A handful
of people pushed past us
into the terminal. We grabbed
a cab there and
cuddled.
For the rest of my life
I loved the high ceilings and the sweating
fires. The sun
blooms
in the water. It's cold there
and fabulous.
For the rest of my life
my eyelids were broken. The curtains
are thin. There's
bread in the market and whatever
the boats
bring.
In short I am making adjustments.
You on a tiled
bench in the courtyard. You stepping
off of a Vespa. You
under a Chinese
umbrella.
Now we're in a noisy
restaurant at night. You are luminous
and warm
and I am afraid again.
Don't leave
I say. You shake your head
a little and lean
closer. I want you to stay
I say
but you still can't
hear me
and never
will.
Tested Here on Earth
Tonight, brief as it is, the wind has met the leaves. Your moon is
mostly red and anxious. There's no way out. Behind this
window, songbirds
flit about the tapestries. Like you, they welcome sleeplessness and
understand the future. Like you, they sing and sing and
sing.
Tonight, brief as it is, the wind calls out. Behind this window, the
wayside never answers. Spring came sliding
up the scaffolding, and the angels at the top burn perfectly. My
voice doesn't weigh a thing. Tonight, the night's
thrown down. I accept the challenge. Hello, nature,
you want to kill me.
Conversation
So I took a walk
inside. You're alone
when morning
comes.
Watching you sleep in
is better
than oatmeal,
even Irish
oatmeal,
that thing you do
so well.
When you were a fish
you were a salmon.
I know, I'm
slow, I
know.
November's a nice day
to be. The ocean's
near.
Your fog
is
everywhere.
So I
talked to I, I said
fuck death, everyone
I meet knows
someone
I know. I said
it's nice to be happy,
but no one
believes
me.
Take your time,
my love. The logs have lit
the fire.
The sweet scent
of your hair
kisses
my mouth, and I
kiss you back,
and pour
the tea.
Gall
Some other
time white feathers
blow all across
the lawn.
We get up
when we want to. We're
high on the hill.
I suppose
one has to be really out of it
for a while
to taste the love
that lags
behind
us. What else do we want
to be? Walking
hand in hand
in a garden we've yet to
experience?
In the tenderest
humidity. In the cicada's
persistence. Our love
a laurel
on the surface
of a pool.
Now
Were you guilty of something
your story would wear a black suit
and come to an end.
I leave you alone.
I mop up the afterlife
and slick back
its hair.
The sun blows so hard
the leaves have returned to their trees.
Their eyes are wide open.
Saltwater fish
slide
through the streets.
The pedestrian said there was sad
and oh how it would be
more interesting
to paint
her skin and hair.
Were I naked now
and am.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Your Moon by Ralph Angel, William Olsen. Copyright © 2014 Ralph Angel. Excerpted by permission of New Issues Poetry & Prose.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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