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Category archive for: Ira Sadoff

Heavens

Ok, it’s sunny, otherworldly, skin-tight

where we’re flabby and clouded over, pining away

under layers of jealousy, detachment, the compost heap

of the shucked and dismissed. Out of the bad deeds,

screeches in the arboretum, the wronged person

who circles the rotaries, the infidel

who torments her clitoris, the young man

who discovers he’s nameless,

muttering when he should be moaning, shattering

the window of opportunity because—I forget where

I was going with this—perhaps the baffling

cataclysmic lesions that scar us invisibly—

but I suspect, deep down, we’re a good people,

easily humbled: we implore, fill with worry,

we try to sing to loved ones, shadow

their wishes, color their hair as they fly

into the great nothing: no more, that’s it.

But we can only hold the shell of them,

get on our knees and scrub away

the whole heavy saga. In another world,

people would know exactly how bad we are,

how we seize a dance floor, how we shake

and sweat profusely, how we hum a few bars

through the dead spots, and since we have no idea

what comes next, we set the homestead

ablaze. We bargain, we finagle,

we comb the hair on the corpses, their beautiful hair.

from True FaithFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Id

It comes from that voice dogs can hear, the glass-

breaking high C that makes life sylphlike.

Of course sylphlike’s

for pussies. If I say I want a dancer’s body,

I don’t want to dance: I want to be lithe,

lasting a little longer to take in

the traffic jams. I don’t want to look inward,

reflect on, stare at my reflection, nail

another deer on the mantle. Be indelible—

all cobble and boarded-up windows.

Dear reader, I left cupboards open

for your perusal. So trespass my secrets:

I have never cast the petulance aside,

not even just sat with that humlessness.

Can I call that my own personal abyss?

I’m not exempt, I’m no special case, I won’t

go around with scissors and a razor blade,

cutting into things, inspecting, shutting down

the operation. I don’t want to say nimbus

when I mean shotgun. Or be my friend

when I mean slip it in. Penthouse,

when I mean pent-up house.

from True FaithFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

My First Roses

My first roses brought me to my senses.

All my furies, I launched them like paper boats

in the algaed pond behind my house.

First they were pale, then peach and blood red.

You could be merciless trimming them back.

You could be merciless and I needed that.

Emerald green with crimson tips,

these were no crowns of thorns.

They would not portend nor intimate.

But if you fed them they’d branch out:

two generations in a single summer.

One had a scent of fruit & violet, the other

blazed up, a flotilla of lips on the lawn.

from True FaithFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.