by Nicole Hennessy
SOMETIMES THE SUN
Jim Lowell lives
in the Cuyahoga River
I swear
I’ve seen him
swimming
on foreign mornings
so situated in the suburbs
monotony is mistaken
as convenience
Sometimes the sun seeps in —
For those who don’t know,
listen:
In attempt
to forgive future
as being beautiful
in your maybe
the morning peels layers of shade
by shade drives shadows to softly slumber
I can’t quite articulate it right
because I sound like me
Autocorrect evening —
In backyard Cleveland
I remember camping
Zoo animals moaned
at night it seemed
as if those howling wolves weren’t locked
but roaming free beneath
the bridge my dad epically recounted
so many times climbing
up from the bottom
still stands
reconstructed
old bones
pass cars rusting
It always comes back
to decay
Nothing’s changed
in the neighborhood I grew up in
Those same animals
moan at night
insisting imagined adventures
come breakfast
lunch
and dinner
The same
mural flaking specks of paint
only noticeable in their absence
The same neighbors
somewhere insist
there was a pigeon man
who in his garage kept flocks
of trained-to-return birds
eventually taken by the city
after which
across the street lived merely a man
unable to look at that empty garage
any longer
I don’t recall
his recurring image in my past
as being after that
but the sound of tiny forests growing
in the cracks between brick road
meeting pavement at each end
Just in time to realize
I had wandered too far from home
in the first place —
My mom used to get to dinkin’
dad told me as I stood
in the kitchen unable
to directly face
and she’d start in on me
I don’t want to do that
Meanwhile, my mom sat in a chair
near earlier
She asked when I would talk to them again
Sometimes silence
conveys comfort and trust
This was not one of those times
Sometimes the sun
By then
I had already forgiven them
as being human
my whole life
I don’t come from one of those polite families
instead
people are people
and spread out across bloodlines
of entire ancestry
spans chaos and dictatorship
A tiny corner
supposedly exsist Ireland
where stood men
I don’t think
I’ve known
They later had beers
and discussed
topics recycle wars
comma
intersect progress
cower ancient calendars
embedded in structures
we still don’t understand
interpret as modern myth
compile science
fast forward future
to end endless
ultimate attainment of the sky
encircles madness
similarly rearranged
whispered the sea
translated into elegies
these same thoughts
Still
breathe vibrations born forever
of slight movement at all
It always comes back
to creation
As poets past
stood in streets drooling graffiti
seeping into sewer systems
crowds of couldn’t careless
passersby deleting dreams
live lives
around each other
seems space
in theory
Suddenly disaster
So you’re after
the stop
exit repeat
so you’re after
you’re after
after
me
I know
it’s been a long time
since I’ve sung a song
not littered
keeps coming
and coming
free far-off
symptoms of lonely
not wholly shivering
smoke another cigarette
suck synonyms
backup
report the exact facts
not lyric mirrored
reflect face
fuck
favorite ever place
so distant
I can’t even say
I love you
tomorrow anymore
And then I guess
I’m suffering
They say consequence
rather rhythm —
90-year-old
bright red roses
scent heavy of another flower
No one ever told me
I was a poet
until much later
they assessed me for it
and failed
that I can’t spell character
no matter
spell-check fixes it
Blur the line of
not enough
people to start music
just me
dreaming
The morning is coming
He is sleeping
Nicole Hennessy is a nonfiction and poetry writer living in
Lakewood, Ohio. Currently, she writes features for a newspaper called West Life, but works on longer pieces on the side. Her latest project, Black Rabbit, tells the story of local poet Tom Kryss and the rabbits he creates, as well as his relationship with fellow poet d.a. levy. Within the text are 10 of the rabbit prints. A limited edition of 100 copies, the book can be found at Visible Voice and Mac’s Backs. This poem is a small slice of a much larger and continuously growing whole.