something has to happen next
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
winner of the iowa poetry prize
andrew michael roberts
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
something
has to happen
next
university of iowa press, iowa city
University of Iowa Press, Iowa City 52242
Copyright © 2009 by Andrew Michael Roberts www.uiowapress.org
Printed in the United States of America Design by Richard Hendel
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. All reasonable steps have been taken to contact copyright holders of material used in this book. The publisher would be pleased to make suitable arrangements with any whom it has not been possible to reach. This is a work of poetry; any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.
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isbn-13: 978-1-58729-794-6
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for jackie hanzal
contents
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1. dear wild abandon,
dear wild abandon, 3
we are not birds 4
explain yourself 5
among the beautiful illusions 6
poem written on the mirror of her skin 7
dear man on fire, 8
tragic figure in a rearview 9
the moon 10
what i know of the moon 11
strip mall 12
birds of paradise 13
before sleep takes us 14
swallows built their nest around it 15
when we were giant 16
again i strike your window in full flight 17
dear artificial heart, 18
pledge of allegiance 19
the face of jesus in my bite bruise 20
laundromat at the end of the world 21
dear special theory of relativity, 22
you can hear it through the cumulative heartbeats 23
you never touched me 24
they molt in hopes of airier plumage 25
dear quark, 26
prove you wrong 27
the end 28
dear catastrophe, 29
2. something has to happen next
rehearsal 33
this or something like it 34
a cyclist passes with a cello on his back 35
lamb 36
the story of my beard 37
other people’s machines 38
winter museum 39
what we know 40
the moments before the crash landing are clearest 41
serendipity 42
safe shower 43
stalactite 44
somewhere a buried bone awaits 45
for the dispossessed 46
in the night of the womb the spirit quickens into flesh 47
coyotes 48
chosen 49
world, 50
levitator’s apprentice 51
man of the year 52
california 53
if nothing else 54
listen 55
i’ll pack a pretty shirt 56
acknowledgments
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Grateful acknowledgment to the following journals in which some poems in this collection originally appeared: “lamb” in Burnside Review; “california” in Cincinnati Review; “the story of my beard” in Colorado Review; “somewhere a buried bone awaits”
in Fugue.
Some of the poems in this collection appeared in the chapbook Dear Wild Abandon, published by the Poetry Society of America in 2008.
The line “in the night of the womb the spirit quickens into flesh” is borrowed from John G. Neihardt’s Black Elk Speaks.
Thanks to the following people whose support helped greatly in the creation of this book: Dara Wier, James Tate, Amy Dickinson, Tony Wolk, Carol Franks, Dani Blackman, Andre Kahlil, Jeannie Hoag, Emily Renaud, Peggy Woods, Phil Moll, Chuck Boyer, Brent Goeres, Tim Roberts, Mike and Celia Roberts, and Jackie Hanzal.
dear wild abandon,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1
dear wild abandon,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you little
time
bomb.
i’ve crept close and touched you in your pregnant sleep
with the flame
of my tongue.
if i bite
and swallow, would you
explode in me?
3
we are not birds
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
this beautiful speed will be the end of us.
those are stars in our teeth.
4
explain yourself
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
my life was like this when i found it.
so i walked with it the entire way.
the chickens followed, they are not mine.
5
among the beautiful illusions
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i found you feathered at the small of the back among honeycomb and thunderstorms.
you blinked, and a galaxy
spun to life.
you’d caught a comet
that blazed from your beak
at the end of its mad tail.
6
poem written on the mirror of her skin
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
each illuminated breath
is the moon
slipping inside itself.
7
dear man on fire,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you beautiful
waste.
don’t die out,
don’t go too soon
to dark smoke like arms
flung over the city’s
face,
wretched home
to all our eyes.
8
tragic figure in a rearview
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
took a hammer
to my windshield.
now a cobweb
sprawls between the future
and me.
it’s gorgeous,
its translucence,
the prismal sun
I don’t
deserve.
9
the moon
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
all the other moons
get their own names.
10
what i know of the moon
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i am only half myself.
the other side’s
a dark idea
i like to believe in.
11
strip mall
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
we stop to watch
seagulls swarm
the Burger King.
12
birds of paradise
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
across the desert we kissed
and dreamt one-legged of islands.
we were not yet home,
a sea of buffaloes
carried us on its back.
13
before sleep takes us
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i memorize my life
so it’s still there
when i arrive again
in the morning.
14
swallows built their nest around it
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
she slings it
on a limb,
climbs up to
sew tiny lights
inside.
the pulse,
the half-moon behind it.
you can smell
the coming
snow.
15
when we were giant
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
in time we grew
tall enough
to hear
the lost tiny geese honk
to be let out
of the atmosphere.
16
again i strike your window in full flight
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i’ve dreamt of fingers
and their intricate instruments, someone to carry me
room to room
while i sing.
17
dear artificial heart,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
at the silent edge
of sleep i hear
your perfect plastic
gaskets clap and know
i’m more
than half alive.
my blood a little lost
in your strange rooms,
this empty house
too much for me.
the moon out there like ice,
a warning hung
above the artificial
earth.
18
pledge of allegiance
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i have a wig i do not wear.
it is the shape of my country at night and mewls for me to lift it
from its cold hook.
19
the face of jesus in my bite bruise
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
your holy teeth singing
the life story of my skin.
and the stars,
the broken ones that let go
and fell through the ceiling
of my eyes.
20
laundromat at the end of the world
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you can feel
the gravity growing.
the washers shake their chains
and squeal.
something in me
says that man’s
got a gun in his coat.
he’s ready
when the storm
throws open the door
and shoots its hail in
sideways to make way
for the moon
crashing down.
21
dear special theory of relativity,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
please accept our sincere apologies.
nothing’s relative since you’ve been gone, the sunbeams halted
halfway down the sky,
the long train of cars dead
in the street, blurry from the rush of trees racing past
on their way to work.
22
you can hear it through the cumulative heartbeats
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you, and a skyful of swallows
schooling like fish.
then the planets’ heavy whir
through space.
23
you never touched me
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you’ve seen me in the chickencoop feeling for eggs. not the eggs,
but the warm bellies, the sharp
protective pecks at the bones of my hands.
24
they molt in hopes of airier plumage
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
was it me running nude
in the woods of my youth
who gave birds
their crazy dream?
25
dear quark,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
now i know you,
i see you
everywhere
as if you’ve jumped
the long green train
of my eye,
little tramp.
26
prove you wrong
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i’m doing two-knuckle push-ups
in the driveway.
there’s a black shape of me
where it hasn’t yet snowed.
27
the end
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
it was the end of something,
and so we grew sad
according to how much we’d loved it.
now, nothing
but our great variety of sadnesses and for some
a seed of instinct suggesting
something else
may eventually begin.
28
dear catastrophe,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
the answer: we were not
thinking anything.
we might have known you
by the wind’s lying down
like shadows beside us,
by the static and the starlings’ dead silence.
29
something has to happen next
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
2
/>
rehearsal
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
here is a sparrow bone to stand in for me.
carry it like the look you gave
when you wanted me unclothed
in meadows under the meteorites.
when your feverish hips kept winter at bay with the skinny trees at the far dark edge.
take me in a finger’s sweep. tie me with hair and watch the knots
unwind. there is a trick to everything.
sometimes you have to put it to your tongue to know it from its deep desire.
my question is when
am i perfect, and will you
be looking the other way.
33
this or something like it
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
here is the sound of the heel
of a hammer and the sea
escaping an oyster shell.
someone’s standing on the shoulders of barnacles to smash a lovely
life. sometimes you know
exactly what to do.
between strikes a silence settles in.
down the reach, a pregnant dog
lies down in the surf.
dark islands in the distance,
two crows smug in a dead fir tree.
this stone in your hand’s
the size of their skulls.
you can feel your lungs and know you’re alive. something
has to happen next. with its stare the half moon draws the sea
like a lover and makes you
seem as small as you are.
34
a cyclist passes with a cello on his back
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
we bring our birds
to cafés in toy cages.
a few crumbs tossed in
among the husks while we sit.
they do all the talking.
when we go we always leave
a sip of tea in the cup.
Something Has to Happen Next Page 1
