Select Poems
Maps and Wings
Gary Glazner
The road looks the same
no matter where you are going.
Some roads take on a magic
from the hum of the wheels
they hold.
Route 66 was my father’s road
and his father’s road.
Model A with the dust bowl
in the rear-view mirror
and California in the headlights.
From being men to being Okies.
The vulgarities of newcomers.
A drowsy distant hope.
Route 66 was their plowshare.
They dug into the rank soil.
Held the miles in rusted fingers.
Maps folded like wings.
A banquet of motion.
Beckoning us now
with its broken fragments.
Let us piece the road together.
This is the way they went
and we shall follow them as we are able.
Tea
Gary Glazner
Steam is the first sip,
touching the air with taste.
Scent is the second sip,
the tang of union.
Too hot—
hint of purity, lips recoil.
Now the waiting,
place hands on the edge of vessel.
Listen for cooling.
No one knows where the drink comes from,
it shows up in the kitchen a guest.
Be a good host: ask the kettle why it sings.
Caress the handle with flesh.
Open your mouth to its mouth.
Inhale the last drop of honey.
What pleasure the empty cup knows.
We Are Forget
Gary Glazner
We are the words we have forgotten.
We are shifting and pacing.
We wrote this poem.
It’s a pretty poem.
Can you bake a cherry pie?
Never more, never more.
We have no horizon.
We don’t recall washing or eating
or what you just said.
Ask me my name.
Ask me if I have children?
You’re a pretty lady.
You have beautiful eyes.
Wash me, put me to bed clean,
hold me as I fall asleep.
Give me a kiss, brush my hair.
You are my daughter?
Light washing over us moment, moment.
You’re a handsome man.
Our hand writing is beautiful
twists and loops of letters
we can’t remember our hands.
Our ears are wishful
we can’t remember our ears.
We can speak every language,
we can’t remember our mouths.
We are porous.
We are the past.
We are forget.