Cary Briel

I can still see his look–
his eyes, mostly–
you know,
a “you should know better” look,
fixed on me quite longer than it probably was,
to which I would say back,
with equal, knowing eyes,
“I know!!”–
just hoping to make him stop
looking.

But, my God,
when I stop and consider
how alone I am now!
I am alone, you know.
Not utterly,
but without his look, I
instead turn inward,
searching for what he left with me
by loving me,
what hasn’t been taken from me.

And all these years later, I realize
that the look he held in his eyes
was not really, “you should know better,”
but, “I love you.”
I know it
because I catch myself looking the same–
at moments– at my children,
and there is never a look– never a gesture–
that doesn’t distill, simply, to,
“I love you.”

For just a moment, I believed,
as in times past,
as dark retreated and light crept in,
that I heard your footfall,
and even pictured your figure in the hall,
and remembered your disdain for waking early,

and all the years at once came rushing back.
I was sure I’d blocked them out,
those ignorant, blissful years,
when He caused me to believe,
and even fooled,
and even lied to my heart,

that life and love would not be interrupted,
that His instruction to my heart
would not lead to parting.
O foolish man!
Who fooled you– told you–
that happiness would live forever?

To write–
I suppose–
as all writers must,
dim rooms whisper our names,
tearing us from TV,
Youtube,
mp3.

Modernity,
now,
is surely the enemy,
pulling,
if not this way, then that,
risking,
well, everything.

Little people,
I say. Definitely
not bigger than the poor who
streak
and smudge my window,
as I fly
up Adams Street toward caffeination.
It’s eyes straight ahead
if I catch the light.

Latte– no diacritic.
The smudgers don’t argue.
Grande.
That’s ‘medium’ to the smudgers.
No foam.
Whole milk.
Decaf–
hmmm.
Well, only if Chris is judging me with her eyes.

I cannot–
will not–
release or part from you,
O man.
You ask
as dawn approaches fast
from night.

All through this night I’ve asked
a thousand times,
who am I,
and who are you?
I turn to ask
but you just smile, as if I know
or should.

How I am bruised and black
amidst this snow!
Did we not love,
first, I, on top
then you,
while angels faces turned blue
with fright?

Why couldn’t you have loved me
for who I was
where I was?
Who lied and said that I could love above–
with you below–
that the sun
could reflect the moon’s glow?

Prophet, no.
Teacher, no.
There is no food.
The members of my household
eat
each
other.

What is your name
O man–
you
who pulled me to the depths
of hell–
of love?
Bless me.

O come
shy muse from your depths.
Pity me
and tear back
from my dim eyes,
reality,
the ancient rite.
And tell me, muse,
of heaven’s bind,
valleys loosed,
and cows that seem
familiar–
if only in their names.

O lowly cows
that hop,
and skip,
and jump
the moon, as if their want
was heard–
though whispered only by the wind and bird.
As if the lowly–
the familiar–
cows
held sway,
their graves upturned
this winter day.

Dusty Pas’cal opened for Aztec Two-Step on Jan 8th at Auburn Public Theater. The song is “Lonesome.” Danny Welch is on harmonica. Learn more about Dusty Pas’cal here.

From my bed
I’d spy
first light, as it arrived,
softly cutting through the blinds,
arriving, He, in place of her reflected glory;

And for a moment,
it would seem–
He’d look–
I’d recollect my dream,
labored over many hours before;

And as I’d grab my pen to write,
I’d reach,
resolving no delay,
with names and faces fading fast
between the worlds of dream and wake,

He’d smile,
He’d wink, between the blinds,
the light of angels notified
to kindly shut
the vault of nighttime dreams.

I nudge time’s pointer
and I’m there.
The moment becomes synchronized to this–
and I see it.

As fast as my legs will take me
I pedal
toward home,
a new 2-cycle, horizontal shaft engine in right arm’s grasp.

Did you know a centrifugal clutch is like gold?
At least it is to those of us kids who know what to do with it,
and I have one.
But will it fit?

It’ll be the difference between flying down the alleyways
so fast–
to the envy of all the neighborhood kids–
or sitting amidst my tools,

staring, in the damp of our family basement,
desperately
trying
to make it all work.

Restrained, you call me,
but not with words, just a look
through a well-worn door left half-ajar
by absent-minded children.
Despite your quiet
and restraints,
I can almost taste your wetness
even before I drink you in.
I look again.
Your five siblings, they,
still restrained in plastic,
still looking from behind the door,
betray their envy.
You take no note.
You caress
and you awaken my tongue
in ways that others have tried and failed–
lesser gods.
And when I’m finished with you,
I’ll toss you away.
What remains is only salvation
for seabirds
by marriage-bound decree.