Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘Ask me anything’ and other poems

By: Stephen Joffe

ASK ME ANYTHING

before it was intractable

how swiftly did it move,

& move me?

i cage the sparrow

softly in my hand –

to what god rise the prayers of prey

when their stomach swells with blood

         to breaking?

does it sleep

like morning does

in the hollow

between a mark    & a stain?

is the question      holy?

         does it weigh more

         than a stone- not of, but upon you?

(when you arrive at a thing

& it is what it should be

doesn’t it feel like

nothing is             there?)

                            is there another word for your name?


CAN I TELL YOU

listen, listen-

there are several shells on a bedside table.

i do not know how many.

i do not know which came first.

i do not know the name of the place         that each will answer to                   if called.

but i do know that if you press your ear against the wood     beneath

you can hear the oceans harmonize.

that if you walk far enough in any direction

you will find the same   place.

that all things are made of one thing, and that thing is death

and it is nothing to be   ashamed of.

you must remember.

none of this is yours,

                                     none but the witnessing of it.

JANUARY 2ND, WHEN WE BEGIN

there is one quiet gift

in the new years day hangover

         (& yes, thank god it is   quiet)

– that is

the irrefutability of a soft        start.

we do not need another year

that is ours. we have enough of       those

tucked, broken in the closet

replaced by newer versions     we so quickly

broke again.

instead-

i will take your year,

         if you are ready    to part with         it.

                   & i will calm the frayed edges,

                            make them whole again.

we need to graze  on this       life

         as deer do in the far field

occasional. uninvited,    but unimposing.

         sun dappled despite our          need.

let it come to you,

there is no rush ?

         there is no rush.

& no good thing

         begins in shame, nor     desperation-

let endings be       endings.

         watch them go a while, wave gently.

& when they are gone, clean up.

         & when that is done,     look back to the door,

                                     it is still open.

FRIED CHICKEN OMELETTE.

i drank tequila

at an  afters in      spain

deaf in one ear

mute in the other

         purple lights

swimming indelicately   above me

stepped outside

         to smoke against an ancient    cathedral     like

         ‘oh, you come here too’

& it all felt like

a fried chicken      omelette

the blasphemous

                            divine

every day we stray further       from

         & every day

                                     He follows.

CONTAINMENT

good love: the skin

that keeps our blood from pouring           out to

wind,          & bones from scattering         across

the wide channels of              year. not hard but unflinching,

porous. she grows around me, & i her:

expanding on each others       respiration.

         i used to fear containment,

         as the restless fear rest (what then is left?)

but i lean into the chair,

& suddenly am falling-

the back nor body where i left them-

& you have me, don’t you?

laughing,

it is not so bad, after all

to have a home

         to set long hands by the fire

& mix your future with your present

& know the joy of         keeping.

there are places that you inhale,

or places that you exhale,

here is one  to simply     breathe.

###

Stephen Joffe is an award-winning actor, musician, writer, and sound designer based in Toronto. He has previously been published as a playwright, songwriter (Birds of Bellwoods, etc.), and poet.

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