Poetry by David Ward
Sediment I
A twinge under the muscle of my right breast. Strands of your hair on the carpet among the letter tiles. Our son’s smell on the beanbag couch, his smell under the door. My It’s the summer of gin and tonics. It’s the summer of metroparks and disc golf. It’s the year of REM. It’s the winter of green grass. It’s the summer of mouthguards. It’s the summer of writing poems. It’s the autumn of angry teaching. It’s the winter of gin and shirt white with salt. The sound of your eyes, closed, squishing in circular massage beneath your fingers. His tooth appointment. His physical. His heart appointment. The untuned wires in my legs. My front teeth grinding down. His hairline receding. Your It’s the afternoon of limestone and quarry water. It’s the hour of waiting room. It’s the hour of lost salt. It’s the morning of graduation. It’s the evening of departure. It’s the hour of driving east. It’s the hour of driving west. It’s the night of string. It’s the noon of hair the color of steel at the root. My leathering forehead. His transition lenses black in the Chinese buffet. His voice through the wall and through the mirror. The distances at tonics. It’s the year of weed. It’s the year of digging holes in the yard. It’s the spring of root-rot lilacs. It’s the year of closed roads. It’s the winter of good grades. It’s the winter of bad grades. It’s the summer of cilantro and Jimmy Nardello peppers. It’s the autumn which your eyes and his eyes refuse to see. The spot of blood on the couch. The bedsheets and towels. The limp in my left heel. The chase of caffeine in my chest. The cyst, the nails, the hair, the hair, the eyes, the heart, the teeth of long division. It’s the year of war. It’s the year of news. It’s the spring of concretions and creek slag. It’s the winter of Consent to Share Information forms. dishes. It’s the dinner of would you rather. It’s the hour on the carpet together. It’s the night of rain sounds. It’s the noon of horses. It’s the day of nothing bad. It’s the hour of something good. It’s time to mow the lawn. It’s the evening of euphoria.
Mineral Study: Smoky Quartz
Motts Children’s Hospital
They hold in their hand
the idea of a heart.
The idea of a river,
from which this stone
was plucked, as a creature
with many hearts.
The smoke
is aluminum stain,
the smoke
is old water, from deep
in the genes, pumped through—
but what we want to know
they can’t say. Only
the EKG, only the Echo.
Scales and ranges and never how
many years it has left.
Sediment II
They put a suture in my eyeball and then left on vacation. They let their dog shit in our yard. They make a really good lo mein. They won’t be here until four. They didn’t read the text. Those idiots won’t stop fucking the country up. They look frail. They were all playing ukuleles across the hall. Will you take some ice cream cake home with you? Will you take the copper mugs and plant succulents in them? Will you come for a walk? Will you come to the table? We would like a two-wheeled wheelbarrow, pre-owned. We would like to quit coffee, we would like to drink a little coffee. We want the booth in the furthest corner. We would like to have our backs to the wall and our good ears out. They told me I had Asteroid Halitosis. They keep posting on facebook. They were young guys! They are so loud. They’ve had so much tragedy Will you go out to the patio? Can you meet us for breakfast in twenty minutes? Will you speak in the phrases that we remember? in their lives. What a nightmare. They’re coming to fix We would like a house with a marsh, a pond, a ravine, an orchard, a river, a fenced yard, acres of the weatherstripping. They said the pond was really a wetland. woodland, good bones, copper bones, we would like a house that we will never leave. We would like a house so hidden you will never find it. We would like a house in which to imagine the grandchildren Do you have any memories of us? Will you survive your big race? Will you send me the address? we don’t have, a house for the grandchild we do have, a house in the past, a house on a dirt road that will never be ploughed. Will you put the chopped onion in the baggy? They waited until the anesthesia wore off and I said that hurts, that hurts!
David Ward is a co-founding editor of the poetry and craft journal Public School Poetry. He has poetry in or forthcoming from Black Warrior Review, West Trade Review, and Pithead Chapel. He teaches writing at the University of Michigan.
