poems by Doreski, William

Greenland and Antarctica

Field ice knuckles down to the sea

and fractures. Slabs coast away

to addle container ships lurching

to New Jersey, Hamburg, Rotterdam.

I lie awake worrying that bergs

as big as Manhattan will crush

these fragile ships and deprive us

of necessities fresh from China.

Aren’t you worried, too? Your back,

as you sleep your crescent of sleep,

is a map on which I can project

new seas, new continents no one

even mildly sane has explored.

Maybe you’re dreaming of field ice

shuddering as thick rivers melt it,

climate change sickening the air

with the cries of failing species.

Maybe you’re dreaming of hiking

those ice-fields with me, crampons

groaning with purchase, ice axe

poised to slaughter pale creatures

that loom in the chilly fog. I press

against you, hoping that layer

upon layer of flesh will protect

the planet from its ugly secrets.

You stir a little but snooze away

my local effects. Antarctica

and Greenland seem so far away,

their rugose coastlines beaming

with winter sun or brooding

with winter dark. Which winter

are we? Early traffic sizzles

as the daily commute begins.

No one commutes to Greenland

or Antarctica, but the ice fields,

caught between competing eons,

simper like freshly printed paper

on which the latest scripture scrawls.

Red and White Stripes

Framed in the red and white stripes

of your six pillows your face

goes adrift, warping into places

I can’t enter without mourning

the forty years we discarded

like a cargo of empty oil drums.

The city grumbles to itself

with most of its passions muted

by the buzz of construction sites

and the criminal expressions

of cops in fresh new uniforms.

We should visit the museum

with its Dutch masters blazing

and Goya too angry to paint

but painting anyway, on and on

into black and gray infinities.

We should lunch like typical

elderly couples, late blooming

over delicate little sandwiches

and glasses of oily white wine.

In a few minutes the patter

of your bare feet on the hardwood

will present angles of vision

no one since Adam has enjoyed.

The snore of traffic will become

gossip of epic proportions,

and the stoplights will pause

on yellow for hours at a time.

The cops will almost learn to smile,

creasing their aggressive trousers.

Then you’ll fade into distance

rendered geological by habits

we hope to acquire. And then

I’ll know why the red and white

stripes of your pillows say nothing

of ordinary blood and flesh.