Friday, July 12, 2013

Having Placed an Order for Bonsai Pots/Thanksgiving


Three pots in the Pacific
have my name on them.
On a ship in a container
in a crate in a box,
three pots rise and pitch.
They travel from Seoul
in the dark
with my name on them.

Which clerks polished their glasses
and checked at blanks
on yellow paper?
Which heavy crane
swerved its column,
steel-reinforced,
and stacked the container
upon the deck?
Which frowning crewman
drew down the tarp
with hooks and cables?
Which captain sleeps
through a mild squall
out in the middle of the Pacific?
What dream keeps him
asleep near the photo of his sons,
there, near my three pots
in the dark?

What color? I don’t remember.
Two months ago I sealed
the order for three glazed pots.
I have a euphorbia
thin-barked with thorns,
a pine that curves
on a just-thickened trunk,
a juniper still supple
to bend in a cascade--
a little dry at the tips;
it might pull through.
Three pots in the Pacific
have my name on them.

Call them whatever.
Call them lovers.
The one I loved
who didn’t believe me.
The one I didn’t love
who didn’t believe me.
The one I loved
who wouldn’t touch me.
Three different colors now,
glazed in the darkness,
three pots with my name on them
rolling out at sea.

Let go and let
them sail. On the other half
of the round world,
on the other side, over there,
when it’s dark, it’s dark,
and here it’s dark,
now, dark on the leaves
of trees, dark in the soil
they grow out of,
dark in the old pots
holding three trees.
For the clerk and the captain,
for the potter and the girls
who knew my timing was bad,
I am grateful. For all
the delays and the darkness
I am grateful. On a ship
in the dark they are waiting,
three pots with my name on them.

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