3 Poems Genevieve Kaplan


Why feel devoted to that object?



Trust

is not enough. As inspiration is never enough,

as bolts are not enough.

In America,

bread is enough, or planks are enough,

or driving and driving and driving.

Worry for the roof.

For the animals.

For the minds of the people who can’t help but notice.

When you were enough,

one treasure was enough, paper

was enough, two machines

were enough, amusing enough.

The leaves from the tree shake to the ground.

the motion they create makes

The fence slats rattle.

It’s hard not to see, to see, to consider

the damage in America.



Look me over here in the half light



So what’s carried is alive

we wave our arms. A fashion

after creeping through the halls,

pawning shots of cement, pausing

in front of murals which affront

our causes. The cause is weak

for the way you hold back is a way

to amuse me and that way slips

when we walk arm in arm.

Your qualities confront me

at daybreak--I get caught

in the moment when your lunge

lands on mine. Walking

in the evening it is obvious

what we leave behind. A soft

house. A frame house.

The compassion brought us

to the seat by the window

where we could wave out as we passed--

we didn’t look the second time.

We didn’t eat at all. Nothing

was expected and I held on

to nothing at all. That makes us perfect.



If the land had wandered



Clap! she said

as she raised the frame. Blam! he moaned

as the bird cowered down.

Eek! she yelled at the sight

of the crow. Pow! he tumbled

out the door past the mail box and the bent post it lived on.

We admitted it got us to this end. What’s alive

was alive. What kept pace kept

pace. Blam! he shouted

as we walked through the plaza, our hands hard with stones.