Poems by Dave Harrity
Outside the Mirrored Hall
I could have said nothing, but instead possessed
the capitulation to name the rain as if I were able
to call it from the sky. I told each person who loved
me about it—not for the rain’s sake, though I said
that was the case, but for the sake that they would
notice me noticing the niceties of what was already—
obviously—a delight. & so I made a habit of declaring
the evident with the hope of avoiding oblivion. I would
invite friends over to see the way the rain fell from
the pitch of the roof, pooled on the sidewalk, beaded
the windows. I would tell them how much I loved them.
Some returned to see the water, some never spoke
to me again, but such losses can’t be avoided. That
house held so many simple self-deceits & I couldn’t
wash away a single one. Couldn’t turn away or toward,
couldn’t gather wild plants enough to call them from
the ground, but such a funny thing is that all manner
of clover & stem, of ironweed & bundleflower, are dormant
just below the surface undisturbed. What I let go began
to change: erode, level, evolve. I made allowances for
clutter, piled rubble to cascade & dapple streams. It was
easier to shape a rough-shod fountain & cultivate
the arable land of the grove where fruit trees began
to bud & cluster among all manner of native blooms,
rye, & aster. I died & was reborn each morning. Each
iteration seemed delicate enough to understand,
but I mastered nothing, save anticipation. The subtle
guesswork of where & how the light might land,
what weeds would jewel without my held attention.
Bhayā
There’s a mouse
stuck in my wall. His
desperate scratch, then
silent. Down the block,
church bells declare
the dusk. It’s all me.
I’m not sure if I
know myself—
unsure of what’s
to be unlearned.
Chitter in
joists, no foothold,
slow skulk.
The ear has no
more value than
the eye. Precise
expectation, hollow
intention. My ear
against the wall—
his scraping to
climb up. My ribs,
my whole life:
parallels of darkness
& light. Sleeping,
I feel the mouse
in the back of my
throat. mornings later,
the air is gamey
like rot & wet wool.
I cut a small hole
to find a matted
curio, decay’s arcade.
Puddled body. Early
cold whips geese
into shape, arrows
them off. The season
arcs slowly from the lake,
bends farther. I keep
at my slight distractions
of slow winter, have dreams
where I’m praying
again. I wake up saying
the names of
mothers I know, like a
rosary unwinding decades
of unfaithful tatter.
Dave Harrity’s writing has appeared in Verse Daily, Ninth Letter, Mid-American Review, Copper Nickel, Hotel Amerika, Softblow and elsewhere. His most recent book is Our Father in the Year of the Wolf (Word Farm, 2016). He is a recipient of an Emerging Artist Award and an Al Smith Fellowship from the Kentucky Arts Council.
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