Category: Maya Phillips

by Maya Phillips

Today, after the cable is disconnected

and the phone line is cut, after

the electricity bill goes unpaid, this

is what is left behind: rusted

frying pans, ceramic mugs, winter coats,

all 27 years boxed and taped

while the wedding dress hangs

untouched in the closet, the lace stretched

over the front like a web.

Since my mother stopped wearing the ring

we don’t speak of him.

We don’t speak of the mice

dying in the walls, the everywhere smell

of rat poison and rot.

Maybe today no rot—

only rooms of undying. Only rooms

of open windows and light, so that maybe today

this can be the house I grew up in:

the ceilings will patch themselves up,

the windows will unbreak

and open themselves to the yard,

which will tame its wild forest of bushes

and weeds. The fence pulls itself back up

and this house, now another,

on Main across the church,

on Cedar by the pier, blooms

yards of perennials and trimmed grass,

pathways of measured brick, the door—

open and familiar—greeting us

as though we never left anything behind.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

No matter that he shouldn’t,

that the doctor has already told him where this has led,

where this is leading (we already know),

still he leans over the stove, one hand bracing

against the counter—he leans like a building

grazed by the wrecking ball.

Still he’ll heat the bacon grease

for the gravy, gloss the butter over the top

of the cornbread, grate ribbons of cheddars

and mozzarellas for the mac and cheese. And though

he’ll carve the chicken perhaps a bit too carelessly,

as his thumb twitches so close to the knife’s

inclination, tender, tenderly, he’ll rest

the bird into the oil, so gently that even it wouldn’t

complain, could it.

Though beads of grease spring and somersault

over the burners so close to the hand, the arms

scarred brown in sloppy patchwork; though

the swollen legs, the aching back nearly give

as he peeks through the oven door; though

he has made too much, too late, in this kitchen

for himself; though he may falter once, only once, before

he brings the fork to his mouth, still he does, and again,

and again; though the cluttered countertops, the sink full

of dishes, the empty plate, the knife blade, the fork tines, all

messied with intention, seem to say, Look how you’ve hungered;

though he hasn’t, though he isn’t, he will eat.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

Every night a feast.

The spread goes for days,

or years: fresh-baked

breads with pomegranate jam,

pomegranate-braised pheasant

and lamb, pomegranate spiced pears

and honeyed apples.

The dead eat past their fill

and still more, beyond bodies,

beyond hunger, they bloat

with the taste: the last bites

of rose water pudding, last

licks of molasses and meringue.

She watches.

At the far end of the table,

she waits and watches this feast

and its host, his mouth, the roving

tongue behind the teeth; her plate

empty, no drink in her glass,

fork and knife on each side,

folded napkin in her lap, she,

waiting, hungry—hunger,

her last refuge.

In her stomach: furious,

inflamed as a hive,

tiny nestling, little mite,

single blood-red seed.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

i.

O Erou   the kids on the block croon asking

where you from and Erou’s got a story

for every day of the week:

Monday      his father brushed him

like a daydream from

the corner of his eye

Tuesday    his mother stayed out in the sun

singing Hello, Stranger till

she swelled with his pitch:

Hello, Erou, my baby

in the major key

Wednesday   he swam up out of the Atlantic,

brushed off his gills and walked

right up to Coney Island Beach

Thursday     the gods of the clubs on Jamaica,

the jerk chicken spots and the late-night

pizza joints threw off their clothes one night

and danced till he dropped

from one of their faces, a boy-

shaped droplet of sweat

Friday     his Converse came first, his mother

set them in the garden and he grew up out

of them like a weed: Erou

of the laced-up kicks

Saturday    his father sat with a dinner of whiskey

and sunflower seeds, spat one out and

here’s Erou, kernelled, uncracked on the kitchen tile

Sunday     Erou came right outta the sky,

didn’t you see it? Ten years ago today Erou’s Comet

set fire to his mama’s roof as he came down

I.

Gap-toothed Erou,

Erou of the forked tongue

speaking outta both sides of his mouth

believer of nothing  but his own reflection

Erou born in the county of Kings

raised in the lap of Queens

sitting on the throne of his mama’s front stoop

Isn’t this how an Erou begins?

II.

Erou without prophecies

but not without precedent, no,

on the day of his birth,

his mother a cloud, his father a lightning grin, and he a

(hushed)

cry before the thunder

Erou the almost

the first touches

of rain

III.

Innocent Erou of the wordless bluster, howl

of the strays, bray and bark

and Lazarus-blare to wake the dead,

they said, watching

the open mouth like a hollow a

breach in the earth

Erou Avernus whose name the dead pass through

IV.

Erou     a wandering,

a bumbling,

a blundering,

a babbling

child with hands everywhere:

throw pillows on the couch,

bowl of caramel candies,

lit candles,

glass picture frames,

Erou of the everything

Erou in the world with his want

V.

Erou of the house of spite

Erou of the creases in his father’s forehead

the drink on his father’s tongue

the tongue  stilled whiskey-soured and iced

Erou fed from his father’s silence

Erou son of the shadow

beneath his father’s lip

VI.

Erou of the school of Can’t Tell Me Nothing, already knows

what he needs to know:

Street-smart Erou of the words to the wise—

got a hard head but soft behind

is what his laughing mother calls it,

is what his wife will call it

years later   when it will sound like a threat

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

would have been

his birthday, 2

days after New Year’s,

the day of the blizzard

named for the Greek hero,

his 12 labors

of redemption,

1 year after

the divorce, 10 years

since the affair, 3

years since we’ve

spoken, 3 years

since the first poem

and there have been

poems and will be

poems but no

father, today, of the 52

would-be birthday

candles, after 3

trips to the hospital,

5 stitches in the

chest, 1 heartbeat

gone dumb, 1 hearse,

3 limos, 52

roses for the grave,

no cake, no

celebration, but candles,

52 candles, these

52 small fires, 1

body, 1 wooden

box: kindling.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

My father will begin again. He has bought

a juicer and a book on integrative health.

Here, with the doctor as witness,

my father swears to his body,

on his body, the all of his life.

This is his new start.

The doctor remains silent—

after all, what can one say to the dead?

A shot of insulin   ?

Two pills before bed  ?

Or

I’m sorry

as though he forgot

to write the prescription, as though

the insurance was declined:

I’m sorry—

He presses the stethoscope to the stale echo of him.

What can one say?

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

When MTA workers speak

they speak  too loud

my father says

because of all the noise

nights when storms break

onto the city     and the city talks back

above       ground

across       turnstiles

through      sidewalk grates

underground

they gesture and

clangaclack

and

thunder and

my father once       clattercrash

once one of them

once swallowed   spoke with the mouth of   a storm

but now             no words for the dead

my father saying      has something else to say

about all of the all of this

but his voice

now              a fast wind

through a shaft

his fists

blind hail

on the tunnel walls

but when the train rolls in

it roars over even this      this breeze bang bellow

like the whole goddamned sky

is tumbling down

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

It’s okay. I, too, have failed

at the expected, have sputtered

and choked like a rusty valve

in water, have jumped into the pool

only to sink. Little engine, your flawed

machinery is nothing like love. You limp

at last call to the dance floor,

but feel no shame

in your offbeat two-step,

your eleventh-hour shuffle

in a dead man’s shoes.

There’s nothing left

but the encore, so go ahead:

relax, unravel

like a loosened knot. Overripe

fruit in his chest, you blush

with uncertainty, bruise yourself

tender; little heart, tiny treasure,

sweeten to the point of spoil.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

He had meant to say witch

but lost the w somewhere between

Colchis and Corinth. The word chips

the back of his teeth on the way out.

Could he fan it away or

breathe it in like smoke?

She eyes him like a cancer

just starting to spread.

He regards her like the first

dark cloud in the sky. Now,

years later, they know without

saying. They have nothing

to give each other but

this: words that fall just short

of leaving, that thunder

like a crew going down with the ship.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Maya Phillips

they’ll arrive at the house

in the poem where the man,

who is the father, who is

the husband, who is the body

in the earth—

but we haven’t

gotten there yet;

we are in the car

with his mother and sister,

who are talking— people-talk,

busy-talk, light nothing-talk

of a weekend afternoon—

on their way to visit

the son, the brother,after

two days, no word and

the fear

that lives   like a soreness

in the back of the throat.   and now

his mother thinks maybe

of silence, of her   son, who

has always been a child of

silence, and now is this all

it will be?   but

not yet, there’s just time

now for these still-harmless

thoughts,   these nothing-

thoughts   nervous nothing-

thoughts   of the living.

because when the car pulls up

to the house, it is only   a house

and not a foreshadowing or

a place of   ends   or beginnings.

It is just plaster and bricks

and a door where there is no

answer, which sounds like —

[what they already know].

but they have been wrong

before; they may be wrong

again.   please let them not be

prophets;   let them not be

the ferrymen to their own grief.

let them be

wrong and human and

unknowing.   and if the side door

is open, let them go in

and greet only   the living.

and if his sister calls and there is

no answer, perhaps her brother

is simply unhearing,   silent.

perhaps her brother is simply sleeping

in silence—but

is there only such a silence

as the grave?

because his mother knows

before she sees it—

the it,   not him,   of the son—

no longer

her

son,         no longer

the breath or voice of her

son.   there he is.   and she

already knows but   still

tests the air with the question,

calls his name     once just

to watch it   fall.

from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library

Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.