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James Hoch >> back to poet page
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Leda's Aubade of Sink and Sledge

Out of salt marsh, out of flat and reed,
out of crabgrass and black pine

they looked like swans
an archipelago of upturned sinks

dumped in a field. And I—
out of Meth, out on bail,

crank-addled, flannel-clad,
my punked-out throat slaked

threadbare— What made me
perch heel on wing above their necks?

Master, Miscreant— my body
buckling as I arched and wailed

a sledge into the porcelain birds—
I was what I heard looping in my head:

Anger is an energy. Mother,

I wasn't born as much as I fell out.
Mother, it's morning.

I don't know what's left to praise.
Your child's home, a blistered sun

tattooed over a sacral crest.



Coda

If the white meant snow, it was snow
the man was leading his burro through,

the man made of faint blue marks
who could not be taken for anything else,

as the lines framing the winter scene
could not be anything but the mountains

of China, sprigs of pine, outcroppings
under which the man crossing a creek

perpetually crossed; even as my mother
packed a casserole with a hodgepodge:

leftover egg noodles, ground beef,
a can of mushroom soup that briefly

held the form of the can, crumbs—
even as she set the dish like a stone

down in the oven's black mouth,
the snow remained snow, the man

lingered stick-still over the creek,
the creek vanishing back into white,

and the dish, when it traveled the walk
from our house to yours, was still a cheap

import, ignoble, nothing more, what we
could give to you who had lost a son.



Late Autumn Wasp

One must admire the desperate way
    it flings
itself through air amid winter's slow
    paralysis,

and clings to shriveled fruit, dropped
    Coke bottle,
any sugary residue, any unctuous
     carcass,

and slug-drunk grows stiff, its joints
    unswiveled,
wings stale and oar-still, like a heart;
    yes, almost

too easily like a heart the way, cudgeled,
    it lies
waiting for shift of season, light, a thing
    to drink down,

gnaw on, or, failing that, leaves half of
    itself torn
willingly, ever-quivering, in some
    larger figure.



(c) 2007 by James Hoch. All rights reserved.
Home   :   ©2001 W. W. Norton & Company