Thomas Aiello
There was dust here on the road, placemats
Marking places and placemats before them, with percentages of grace,
You were dutiful in occidental brown, courteous
In the sympathy of your soft fingers, the symphony
Of soft allocation; your forward, aching dignity.
You have pursed your lips in anger, moving
The deluge of your touch through the skin of their diction, and I know
These seventeen simple moments in every purse and hold, every
Novel that breaks from the five acts of your mouth’s shuffle and stop, the symphony
Of rough knowledge; your clustered, patient motion.
There was dust here on the road, placemats
And broken reminders as medals of lost valor, chevrons
To the desolation of the absence of your soft fingers, occidental brown,
Courteous in the sympathy of your soft allocation, the symphony
Of redoubtable faith; your weary, troubled smile.
We build these monuments here to ourselves, stationary crosses
Set right with the solemnity that supports a proper death, matchsticks,
We built this mausoleum for the shibboleths of thirty septembers, thirty dead autumns,
The dark lights of Chester’s wash-o-teria, or of Wongs, the symphony
Of changing leaves; their beautiful, motionless decay.
There was dust here on the road, placemats
Set shimmering through the candlelight of your slip, the bend of your back,
I catalogued the pyramids we erected on the mummies lying below, we danced,
The accordion and the march gardens in green, the symphony
Of intimate interchange; your open, searching eyes.
You have been through the inside of everything I know, breathing
Through the sympathy of your soft fingers, dutiful,
Occidental, the seventeen simple moments of my truest compunction, valor
Is the changing leaves, the deluge of your touch, your skin, your diction, the symphony
Of catalogued desire; its honest, insistent tautology.
There was dust here on the road, placemats
That we’ve collected and folded and thrown away, your absence is calamity,
Your presence is the velum that breaks the skin of my diction:
……….I see you walk out amongst wildflowers from the cold wood floor,
……….Your move selective, your soft fingers run slowly over the petals.
……….There are greens; the occidental browns of thirty septembers;
……….“This is a place where it rains,” you whisper, hold my hand, your soft allocation,
……….We will always be safe in this garden; with percentages of grace,
……………The eternity of your forward, aching dignity.
–
Thomas Aiello is a visiting professor of history at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. His poetry has appeared in the Southwestern Review, Poesia, and elsewhere.
