Free The Best American Poetry 2014 by David Lehman
Authors: David Lehman
_____
âmightâve said , echoed
âââââââââwith-
âout end or
amen
________________
âStories told wanting to
be where they pointed . . .
âFlames they sat encircling
âtelling tales . . . The telling
ââcome
âto no end, they sat listen-
âing, flame-obsessed, ears
blown on by the wind . . .
âWhat was it the singing
said,
âthey kept wondering.
Something about a crash,
âthey thought . . . That the
what-sayer sang smoked
out
âcertainty, they were un-
âsure. Something about
rescue, they thought . . .
No
âsooner thought than it
âwas time to get going.
Trip City loomed outside
âthe
âwoodsâ theoretic rest,
âbait they were bent on
reach-
âing that much
more
â¢
âA madman at the wheel,â
âthey heard him whisper,
the boy-godâs low-key
âinvective to no avail.
Rocked
âfrom side to side, put
upon by chaabi, a madman
âat the wheel beyond a
doubt . . .
âRocked from side to
side, a boat it mightâve
âbeen, the birdlegged boy
its masthead had it been, a
âslur
âpulled at the side of his
mouth. This the ythmic
âtrek to Trip City: car
no metaphor, inveterate skid
ââno
âallegory, the ditch they
ended up in literal, every-
âthing resolute, real . . . So
they thought or so they
said
âthey thought. Thought
disputed it. Mr. Pâs law
âwas that thought would
âhave
ânone of it. So much of
what they said they thought
âthought refuted, Mr. Pâs
âac-
complice, they complained . . .
âNo sooner that than the
skid they thought endless
âended. No sooner that
âas
though complaint made it
âso . . . An increased im-
munity came over them, what-
âsaid cover, thoughtâs
qualm
âand rebuff, coverâs what-
said complaint . . . Coverâs
âwhatsaid compliance it was,
ââwhat-
âever worked worked out ad
hoc . . . The taleâs torn cloth
âwhat all there was of it,
the tale the taleâs rending,
ânot
âenough. They awoke some
âother morning on some
other side of morning, happy
ââto
âawake but happy-sad to be
awake, unsure they were awake,
âsurprised . . . They were get-
ting to be chagrined again. No
âââone
âcould say what they made
of it, road gone from as it
âwas, awoke from what . . .
Sprawled in what was known
ââas
âaftermath, lightâs disguised
âarrival, lightâs abject ad-
dress . . . Light looking into
ââwhich
they could only squint, go
âoff the road where the
âhighway bent . . . That was
ââthe
âway the story
went
from Poet Lore
CATE MARVIN
----
An Etiquette for Eyes
I donât know
if I wore glasses
when I met you
but I know
the last time
I saw you you
drank a drink
I bought you
with another
woman who
was far uglier
than I have
ever been. I have brown eyes, did I ever tell you?
Your eyes are too too blue, tell-all awful, and too
too pretty; you make all the girls swoon, and then
lament how harpies pound on your door, plucking
the very shingles off your roof, conducting through
their unanimous will a plot to kill your hiveâs queen,
fix a hose from the carâs tailpipe to pump barnyard
dread straight into your ken, therefore you demand
I ought never wish to lie in your bed. I have black eyes,
did I tell you? But your eyes are damp blue, fingers in
winter blue, worrying about a prom date blue, never
washed a dish blue. Have I mentioned my eyes are
dead brown, dirt brown, stone brown, done with you
brown, screaming out in the streets
âmightâve said , echoed
âââââââââwith-
âout end or
amen
________________
âStories told wanting to
be where they pointed . . .
âFlames they sat encircling
âtelling tales . . . The telling
ââcome
âto no end, they sat listen-
âing, flame-obsessed, ears
blown on by the wind . . .
âWhat was it the singing
said,
âthey kept wondering.
Something about a crash,
âthey thought . . . That the
what-sayer sang smoked
out
âcertainty, they were un-
âsure. Something about
rescue, they thought . . .
No
âsooner thought than it
âwas time to get going.
Trip City loomed outside
âthe
âwoodsâ theoretic rest,
âbait they were bent on
reach-
âing that much
more
â¢
âA madman at the wheel,â
âthey heard him whisper,
the boy-godâs low-key
âinvective to no avail.
Rocked
âfrom side to side, put
upon by chaabi, a madman
âat the wheel beyond a
doubt . . .
âRocked from side to
side, a boat it mightâve
âbeen, the birdlegged boy
its masthead had it been, a
âslur
âpulled at the side of his
mouth. This the ythmic
âtrek to Trip City: car
no metaphor, inveterate skid
ââno
âallegory, the ditch they
ended up in literal, every-
âthing resolute, real . . . So
they thought or so they
said
âthey thought. Thought
disputed it. Mr. Pâs law
âwas that thought would
âhave
ânone of it. So much of
what they said they thought
âthought refuted, Mr. Pâs
âac-
complice, they complained . . .
âNo sooner that than the
skid they thought endless
âended. No sooner that
âas
though complaint made it
âso . . . An increased im-
munity came over them, what-
âsaid cover, thoughtâs
qualm
âand rebuff, coverâs what-
said complaint . . . Coverâs
âwhatsaid compliance it was,
ââwhat-
âever worked worked out ad
hoc . . . The taleâs torn cloth
âwhat all there was of it,
the tale the taleâs rending,
ânot
âenough. They awoke some
âother morning on some
other side of morning, happy
ââto
âawake but happy-sad to be
awake, unsure they were awake,
âsurprised . . . They were get-
ting to be chagrined again. No
âââone
âcould say what they made
of it, road gone from as it
âwas, awoke from what . . .
Sprawled in what was known
ââas
âaftermath, lightâs disguised
âarrival, lightâs abject ad-
dress . . . Light looking into
ââwhich
they could only squint, go
âoff the road where the
âhighway bent . . . That was
ââthe
âway the story
went
from Poet Lore
CATE MARVIN
----
An Etiquette for Eyes
I donât know
if I wore glasses
when I met you
but I know
the last time
I saw you you
drank a drink
I bought you
with another
woman who
was far uglier
than I have
ever been. I have brown eyes, did I ever tell you?
Your eyes are too too blue, tell-all awful, and too
too pretty; you make all the girls swoon, and then
lament how harpies pound on your door, plucking
the very shingles off your roof, conducting through
their unanimous will a plot to kill your hiveâs queen,
fix a hose from the carâs tailpipe to pump barnyard
dread straight into your ken, therefore you demand
I ought never wish to lie in your bed. I have black eyes,
did I tell you? But your eyes are damp blue, fingers in
winter blue, worrying about a prom date blue, never
washed a dish blue. Have I mentioned my eyes are
dead brown, dirt brown, stone brown, done with you
brown, screaming out in the streets
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