Museums of Temporary Art

for Sam

      I.     FORESTS

In the forest, there are two boys, one ditch, and they crawl into it together.

Now flesh of a madrone tree serpentines two boys in its filament of viridescence—

In the forest, an anxious family of flies wrap around their peach-fuzzed faces,

fades into fingertips slicked with their crushed bodies.

In the forest, miniature sparrows switch into leaves and refuse the boys’ brown,

outstretched arms, their elbow skins lotus pads in puddles of wind and recognition.   

This must be the place. They hoist each other into endless flight,

two skies acquiring the sounds for falling into forest.

I admit, I still pick and choose when to see the forest for the trees.

And noble trees, enduring weights and revolutions, growing wilder, recasting

burrowing insects, the little, impervious, and numerous legs for new ones—

The forest rings, then into grain and knots, the forest continues––

A stringed instrument, ukulele made of wood and nylon.

I was an eternal perch of dawn, while the other boy’s strum

An aubade to proximity.

A madrone relies on fires. So much of what shouldn’t be burned is,

a coniferous longing for the forest.

Like eucalyptus, he’s thick-skinned.

Like eucalyptus, he’s burned to a hallowed core.

We placed our ears to it. You said you heard the forest.

Once, you showed me how, eyes closed, chanting:

When the forest is quiet, that is when you should really worry.

We climb to the canopy with our imaginary canoes.

There’s a forest on top of the forest, silence tidal against our song.

    II.     THE LAMENT OF GUAVA

Well, the fruit warmed in your palm,

wept its juices out as you whispered Guava

into my ear. It was so ripe.

Your saliva, shimmering fish

caught in tidepools

we hold each other in.

I offer it.          I offer it.          I offer it to Sam,        

pressing it to his mouth to cease his singing.

Your dying.

Your estuary, where lulls and grief mix,       

Your ukulele,

Your thighs straddled around me.

Your guava pieces like pink jewels as you spat them out

onto the bed of your thick palms,

and basking there, 

and as if Sam did this all the time,

crushes them behind a piece of cloth,

polishes his ukulele with its essence.

You’re telling me, Look at it!

Taste it! Shouting with the certainty of excitement and aggression

the way adolescent boys always seem

to possess.

  III.     THE SWIMMING HOLE

In the dream, there’s a lake forming between fingers                                   

and my god: He could be so plump               

full of muscular water

and salt, iron, cement: At night, the lake and

a gracious downpour of gold coins

bouncing, then, spinning on the floor—

when we wake, the sun so pure,

morning, a hue-less brightness,

the backs of fish, scythes of silver

breaking and riding the surface, our lake, 

day after day, a reluctance that takes

well to a satisfied face

and fills an eyelid—

The forest walls surrounding us,

I hear ponderosa pines

stomping in the air,

and when we’re done,

his wet fingers

soaking

the chords of my throat

with indignation,        

Open, he says.

And I know which parts to open—

 IV.     GRAVE // GROVE

It said it burned like a steady flame,

and the boy was extravagant.

It said the word “suicide,”

but I only know the word “energy,”

the word “forceful,” the word “choke.”

I admit I tried to forget him and the town,

which is wanting to fail

to remember our shared fruit.

Suicide stands himself in the corner of my room,

as hopeful as solemn.

Guava staining both our lips,

only wanting

sweetens our letting go.

But why?

I wanted to linger around a bit longer

than what I was allowed, to keep those words

to myself, the light, tumbling

of fruit like

his name—I wish it were so simple:

Oils I use to rub grieving stomachs,

learning to play an instrument enough,

such as love—the

tethers of a human to a soul,

and thus, to this one material world.

originally appeared in Cordite Poetry Review