By Conrad Hilberry
After-Music is a diversified and wealthy number of meditations on either the non-public and common. one of the fascinating areas, humans, and occasions that Hilberry brings to existence in those poems are staring at manatees in a Florida canal, a reluctant priest blessing the animals in Mexico, a rushed and sullen checkout woman within the grocery store, and Day of the useless skeletons that shape a mariachi band. even if a few of the poems are formal in sonnets, quatrains, and tetrameter many of the poems are loose verse, making them available and stress-free analyzing.
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Extra info for After-music: Poems
Sample text
That’s the fingernail of luck, crawling up your arm. Negative space Where the body isn’t—that’s how dancers know me. Sculptors bend their clay and steel against my emptiness. Somehow, though I’m not giving it a thought, I nudge a shadow from a twist of bronze or change the way a breast and elbow size each other up. Writers like to wrap white space around their wit, but I’m not white, not bound or folded. I’m your zero with its circumference erased, an abandoned building once the building’s gone.
It looks back, dreams back. Through leaf-broken light it almost recognizes gestures, slants and sidesteps, handshakes, my shrugs and stares. Too far— can’t make out the limp and longing of companionable flesh. But voice carries even over distances like these, half hoarse, hesitating, doing my best to seem at ease. Listening, does soul recall long sadnesses, taut rope raveling as we pulled through a marsh of years— and, over and under these, the intricate entwinings, meshing life with life? The soul’s not going back, but still it clings, half hankering, until an updraft scatters it.
No bony digits quick on the strings. No wired jaws still longing after the tongue is gone. 29 This page intentionally left blank TWO How the Juices Leap This page intentionally left blank Ob o e Your lips move moist around my double reed, and I feel the sad wind rising through your throat. Some child of yours is lost. If I were your psychiatrist, I’d listen, nod, prescribe. Instead, I take your breath, shape it, let it find a passage down this wooden shaft, curl out around the ankles of the clarinet.