Poet Joshua Clover and 11 Students May Face Prison Time

It’s Almost Time for Dinner
By Beth Cortez-Neavel

I

Sometimes

you can sit in a graying hanging-basket swing (so weathered by the years on St. Lawrence),

on an island with             pine trees

so dense and

humming birds

so small and             fast outside

of the screened-in             porch windows.

And they are gone to the store

it is just you                        and

the rain.

Sometimes youcan revel in the sound of boats churning the waves that will

hit             the lichen-covered rocks and

kiss the toes of your feet as

you                                     inhale

that unholy smoke and

exhale

into blue,

waiting for dinner.

Sometimes a blue and white sailboat will dock in your bay and the fishing line will tangle

when it’s cast and

the rain will come down all day and the oven will refuse to heat and…

Sometimes the world will call for writing, but all you can scribble is “I miss you,” and

“I want you,” and

‘I absolutely need you.”

II

Sometimes

you can write

a whole poem about

a                                     droplet

of rain             on             the end of

a single

pine-needle,

and how from far away it looks

stagnant,

hanging,

like the jewel                         on the end

of an upside-

down

scepter.

III

Sometimes

the Canadian sand

between your

copper-painted toenails can inspire

a whole song of rebirth and,                         just so

the wind can blow kisses against your eardrums

so the goldfinches’             tonal             suggestions

are not lost. Sometimes you can feel a             whole

novel

well up             in your chest and

curdle in your brain and

then: sit,             waiting,             rotting

in your fingertips because

all that throws itself onto the page is

How far away he is.

How soft her lips are.

How safe his arms,

when they held you before you left.

How delicious her neck smelled as you nuzzled into it before you came in her.

How you wept when you found him not in your bed when you woke.

How you didn’t bathe for two days after she got on that plane because her             scent

was still all over you.

And

sometimes

all you want to do is drink your tea and watch

the rain hit the dock

and the boat that won’t start

and thelilypads above the catfish that won’t bite

or

listen to the muted chirrups of soggy birds

and think about the one you love and

their smile and how it’s not raining in Texas.

And all you can do is write and             hope

that the fish start biting soon

because it’s almost time for dinner.