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Allegory of a Metaphor
He always carried his own water
up the hill, almost from birth,
the wind blowing in his face
as if to halt each stride.
Early on the bucket
sprung a leak. His shoes grew wet,
then soaked and sloshing as he trudged,
but the pail was always full, heavy
as a heart atrophying, a life turned
to lead, a millstone, anchor, granite
grave marker.
Memories made him, first,
too sluggish to fly, then pushed him further
into the earth with every step. Now, when he drinks
he repeats for strangers the opening words
to a single prayer: I always carried my own water,
almost from birth, up this damned hill.
The Sorrows
For Tu Fu
A certain woman's winter-white thighs
turning in sunlight, her voice a bugle of discontent.
Aged whiskey spilled from a cut-glass tumbler
to stain a rabbit's foot bequeathed by a poet
with a broken lung and no more luck than the rabbit…
Memory rides the sky like a delinquent bird
of ill omen, blood in its talons,
carrion-stained beak—cruel clouds
forming these patterns before the moon.
Michael McIrvin is the author of five poetry collections, including
Optimism Blues: Poems Selected and New (Cedar Hill Books,
http://www.cedarhillbooks.com/, San Diego), two novels including The Blue
Man Dreams the End of Time (BeWrite Books, http://www.bewrite.net/,
Canada/UK), and an essay collection. He taught writing and literature for
several years at the University of Wyoming and now makes his living as a
writer and freelance editor. He lives with his wife, Sharon, on the high
plains of Wyoming.
Email: Michael McIrvin
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