How small
The bones in an ear.
When my mother was born,
Her father’s ship
Was breaking. Think
Of the fragile steel. Think
Of the young men falling
Into water, the young men
Crashing planes
That explode inside of ships.
Think of a bird’s
Velocity. Not mass, as much
As light. Think
Of the kamikaze—how late
Did he close his eyes?
Hear a shell cracking, hear
A monstrous cavern
Hatching. Imagine
Your body’s the cavern.
Imagine the light
When you set your mouth
And fly.
My grandfather
Amputated
A young man’s leg
To keep him alive. Think
Of what moves
In the heaviness of bone.
Think of the cochlea—
The ear’s own fish. Think
Of salt water’s cavern
Beneath a splitting hull
And fear
How small the blade
There was no morphine—
Nothing tender and white
To fill the hollow
In anyone’s mind.
On shore,
Children left to die.
On shore, daughters diving
From cliffs, their young bodies
Smashing. Think of girls
In an invaded land.
Think of breaking
The self, leaving it
Behind. Think of Hiroshima
In a few hot months. When
Did the kamikaze
Close his eyes? Think
Of light and the dead
On every side, think
Of grief’s own speed.
Think of the dead
With their open eyes
And what the living
Leave to the water.
Think of the velocity
Of time. My grandfather
Might have lived
Inside his moving hands
And numbed all of the rest.
And the other man?
They were two
Of the young who survived.
My grandfather went home,
Alive, to a daughter
Who did not smell
Of burning skin.
Think of the moment
When you’d have to close your eyes
And numb all of the rest.
Think of water
On a single leather boot. Think
Of the foot’s firm stance.
Its twenty-six bones.
Think of an anvil
Waiting in the ear.
from Poetry Northwest 12.1 Summer & Fall 2017More by Christine Robbins from the library
Copyright © Christine Robbins
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.