Three doors
by Joey Gould
Kindness for the wasp
was pushing open
the pollen-rich world
from exile in our house,
its head thumping against
the glass. I held
the confounding door
with fingertips in fear
of a parting sting
as it flew an S-curve
to the August sun.
How unlike the “kindness”
for the moth, September,
dew as cool as frost
on my step-father’s lawn--
inside the bug wandered
the dim air as the man slept.
When it fluttered close
to the deadly vortex
of a ceiling fan, then landed
in the palm of my spread hand,
I held it out like a cross--
cradled & carried it
out the terrible door,
shaking it from my hand
regretfully, watching my own breath.
This was the same hour
of the kindness of his last breath,
past the last dose of morphine.
A man who flew
recon over agent orange forests,
then in diapers—who had
by then no strength
even to cough, who I told
goodbye as a wish, that I
could open a merciful door.
Study: Mom on One of the Last Fine Days of Fall
by Joey Gould
Mom looks small in the yard
with her tall thin rake sweeping
up the trees as they crumple
apart, her hopeless defense
against the fade of fall,
& I help her bag the stricken
giants’ guts. The day is chill--
as crisp as a glass of wine, nearly
bitter like anything savory--
so we’re locking up the world
for winter & then, when she goes in
there are boxes, always
more boxes of his stuff
to give or file or toss,
but at least she can be outside
that mess for a while longer,
trading the extinguished light
for the waning reds & oranges
of fall. Raking as a tribute--
not a chore—collecting
deaths, making them seem
containable & neat.
Excerpts from Hard Turn
by Joey Gould
if you let it dress you in rainbows
if kiss skates parallel fast ice
you sculpture teenage star
exploding slept in the passenger
seat we’re all in some passenger
seat you are what you never
mouthed planted prayed
no mouth-guard muscle fists as
I spill myself too in the passenger
seat now please chrysanthemum veins
I hold please last the night hold
enough blood in your moon long as
we just drive headlights pointing
always point at the trees
if you don’t sleep you can
do human things trip
on the carpet wake up
your wife in the middle of the
creaking door night pause
in the hallway not tell her
but see my three birds
---
sonorous uncatchable dove
the birder pines there are many
types of life-list though I can’t bear
them all in mind & who are we?
always running to the next dune
the shadows form people & their waves
come in dark choked shade is
the best place on the beach no
running down the crashing line of no
that sea-bird boulder so far out I’d never
make it back no the outer
neck of the park & our quiet
lasts a half-hour not touching
our phones a détente yes
past the incandescent bushes
an aluminum baseball bat chimes
the fathers cheering
---
tide receded but coming back
brought you sleek rocks
during the night pebbles from a giant
overzealous crow & who
loves a crow but beyond the stones
calligraphy burgundy seaweed
which may be unseemly but you gaze
down from an overbearing cliff
at the outskirts of the beach--
moon’s blood coming in high
o what now rides this tide?
Let it bring whatever it may carry,
heart— with salt to polish wounds.
I am ready for some form
of punctuation; I will love
you. Yes, friend. In whatever tide.
A Bettering American Poetry 2016 nominee, Joey Gould writes, tutors, and lives in Central Massachusetts. He helps plan and execute the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, and teaches poetry workshops in high schools. He also co-edits the audio lit mag Golden Walkman.
by Joey Gould
Kindness for the wasp
was pushing open
the pollen-rich world
from exile in our house,
its head thumping against
the glass. I held
the confounding door
with fingertips in fear
of a parting sting
as it flew an S-curve
to the August sun.
How unlike the “kindness”
for the moth, September,
dew as cool as frost
on my step-father’s lawn--
inside the bug wandered
the dim air as the man slept.
When it fluttered close
to the deadly vortex
of a ceiling fan, then landed
in the palm of my spread hand,
I held it out like a cross--
cradled & carried it
out the terrible door,
shaking it from my hand
regretfully, watching my own breath.
This was the same hour
of the kindness of his last breath,
past the last dose of morphine.
A man who flew
recon over agent orange forests,
then in diapers—who had
by then no strength
even to cough, who I told
goodbye as a wish, that I
could open a merciful door.
Study: Mom on One of the Last Fine Days of Fall
by Joey Gould
Mom looks small in the yard
with her tall thin rake sweeping
up the trees as they crumple
apart, her hopeless defense
against the fade of fall,
& I help her bag the stricken
giants’ guts. The day is chill--
as crisp as a glass of wine, nearly
bitter like anything savory--
so we’re locking up the world
for winter & then, when she goes in
there are boxes, always
more boxes of his stuff
to give or file or toss,
but at least she can be outside
that mess for a while longer,
trading the extinguished light
for the waning reds & oranges
of fall. Raking as a tribute--
not a chore—collecting
deaths, making them seem
containable & neat.
Excerpts from Hard Turn
by Joey Gould
if you let it dress you in rainbows
if kiss skates parallel fast ice
you sculpture teenage star
exploding slept in the passenger
seat we’re all in some passenger
seat you are what you never
mouthed planted prayed
no mouth-guard muscle fists as
I spill myself too in the passenger
seat now please chrysanthemum veins
I hold please last the night hold
enough blood in your moon long as
we just drive headlights pointing
always point at the trees
if you don’t sleep you can
do human things trip
on the carpet wake up
your wife in the middle of the
creaking door night pause
in the hallway not tell her
but see my three birds
---
sonorous uncatchable dove
the birder pines there are many
types of life-list though I can’t bear
them all in mind & who are we?
always running to the next dune
the shadows form people & their waves
come in dark choked shade is
the best place on the beach no
running down the crashing line of no
that sea-bird boulder so far out I’d never
make it back no the outer
neck of the park & our quiet
lasts a half-hour not touching
our phones a détente yes
past the incandescent bushes
an aluminum baseball bat chimes
the fathers cheering
---
tide receded but coming back
brought you sleek rocks
during the night pebbles from a giant
overzealous crow & who
loves a crow but beyond the stones
calligraphy burgundy seaweed
which may be unseemly but you gaze
down from an overbearing cliff
at the outskirts of the beach--
moon’s blood coming in high
o what now rides this tide?
Let it bring whatever it may carry,
heart— with salt to polish wounds.
I am ready for some form
of punctuation; I will love
you. Yes, friend. In whatever tide.
A Bettering American Poetry 2016 nominee, Joey Gould writes, tutors, and lives in Central Massachusetts. He helps plan and execute the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, and teaches poetry workshops in high schools. He also co-edits the audio lit mag Golden Walkman.
