Nathaniel Calhoun
failure to turn
storms prod rootweave for gaps
soak lower bastions loose
and tip trunks over
I built a covered walkway
between one persona
and the next
unopposed—
but it flooded
time swept by
as I pressed a button
over and again
failing to see
that I’d already been answered
that the elevator
had opened behind me
roots
if we are stew
slow-cooked for a lifetime
and one drunken evening
we throw aniseed within—
how long must we bubble
to get the stink out?
over decades old cells
teach new ones to carry
their wrongness forward—
for them it is epigenetic
long before new beings
are implicated.
cut flowers
cut flowers close the airway
of their recipient.
what more could you ask
of a killed gift offered from hope
that found itself courageous
but wasn’t listening
or listened without hearing
or heard without remembering?
someone I loved
was allergic to mint
and I forgot that, once.
she is okay
but we are no longer close.
caring for others requires
presence of mind or a multitude
of well calibrated heuristics
such as noticing when flowers
begin to look dead
and before they really lean
into that performance
ushering them out of the dwelling.
couldn’t be bothered
wherever cars nestle
the forest road’s
soft shoulder paths pry
toward soiled tissue
and household trash.
crackle plastic shatter pots
and spent cladding mix
with grotty cottons.
glass jars leer
with a grim beyond
of old intentions.
brows and ridges hint
at buried tires and
where wilderness drops
towards a muddy vein
someone chucked
a mini-fridge.
Nathaniel Calhoun works to protect and restore biodiversity around the Amazon basin and in his home country, Aotearoa New Zealand. His poems have featured or will soon feature in Oxford Poetry, Lana Turner, Puerto del Sol, New York Quarterly and many others. He reads for Only Poems and sometimes tweets @calhounpoems.
Featured photo by Kulbir (Pexels)
