Fair’s Fair “For Book Lovers”

Push

Dredged halfway from a dream, you
resurface, laugh:
it’s "push," you say, and laugh again,
then breaking through,
as if to ozone, you reply
plain courteous answers to the priest
who soothes himself by praying, or
you try a half-remembered joke—
"They joke too much," you say. "It is all push."

I picture a great rock you shove up hill,
or a long swimmer’s journey.
You on your own Olympics strive
for the sole crown or medal: life
is what you aim at. What will come,
is coming, soon I think, is death.

But push! The mountain waits for you
beyond some sort of golden door.
And why should you be lost? Or anyone?
But those far shores are hard to gain—
or that far peak.
It’s "push" you say, and grimace, smile,
and push away. Perhaps its oars.
I should imagine you
the Charon of your boat ride but
no mountain, river, lunging sea.
One narrow bed.

Your dying’s hard. "It hurts,"
you say, you laugh again. "It is all push."

– M. Travis Lane

She Keeps Writing the Same Poem

She keeps writing the same poem,
again, again,
as if it were always raining,
where her mind
bobs at cold anchor near a shore
where it is almost winter,
but not yet.

The black stones roll
and fumble on the beach.
Hail-speckled the sea
sloughs easily its skin,
a snake of pale water.

The rain still rains,
runnels the cliffs,
rubs at the slate silk
of the sound,
fretting, untranquil,
as usual.

– M. Travis Lane