Pop

Every Day of Every Year

It’s Not Unlike the Sea

When a cell screams

no one hears it, which,

although it may reek of

deception, might be

an indication that we were

meant to be spared from

the full drama of the body’s

inevitable mutinies.

We are shown so few

mercies in our lives, it seems

only appropriate to acknowledge them

where we can.

Still, truth reigns supreme in

the dark halls of our bodies—

these little engines of grief,

these fading ledgers

of experience—

where some ritual is always

ending and another is

always beginning

to the muted cannon fire

of balloons rupturing

all along the cavern walls,

corks bursting in the

recesses of our sacred

temples.

James Whitley

Another wreckage,

another crippling

sadness, another elegy.

Another lost

something or other—

cent, sock, soul.

Another something

slips through a sieve

ruining a recipe.

And every hour

of every day,

another shadow

of another cortege,

another pair of

tightly clasped hands.

Another sharp word

slices clean through

another unwary heart.

Another wind whistles

through another

hollowed-out space.

And every second

of every minute,

another crushed shell,

another clipped wing,

another bird

plummeting abruptly.

Another life

leaves behind

its debris, its residue,

faith limps

away from yet

another devastation.

James Whitley

Several rumors about it are indeed true:

its seductive undulation, its brackish greens

and lambent blues, its penchant for depth.

And yet, despite what you might infer

from its avatars of steam and ice,

it is content to be what it is.

And I’m not talking about water here,

but love—the murky bottom of it,

the inviting waves seen by those not yet

immersed, how even the most buoyant can

drown in it, the surface then calming again,

healing, leaving no telltale scars behind.

James Whitley

The Goddess of the Tainted Garden

The Goddess of the Everlasting Otherness

Lessons learned from the war:

they only keep shooting

if you insist on moving.

So lie still, shut up and

let the enemy pass.

It’s possible to survive the jungle if they leave some life in you.

Dear departed deity:

maybe you were presented

as a lesson yourself,

to teach us that, despite

its sun showers and perky

daffodils, the world is

also the place of rotting

apricots and venomous

snakes just waiting in tall

grasses, of voracious fires

and black widow spiders

devouring their lovers

at the height of passion.

The world is everything

everyone can ever know,

everything we trust

or fear—the aberrant cell

stretching its first tentacle

into the unexplored cavern

of the body, the mother

animal abandoning her

dependent newborn in

the wild, the father beast

killing his offspring for

reasons we may never

fully comprehend.

James Whitley

Out of respect or duty,

the cast members

stream in like small

pebbles forced onward

by a gush of water.

 Though unsure of their

lines, they immediately

take to their assigned roles:

the bereft mother,

the weary-eyed father,

the surprise cameos made

by siblings and various

smoking buddies,

the empty seats where

the wounded sons would be.

They have come to say

their bon voyages as you

travel to your enviable

destination, as you sashay

through the pearled fence.

And they’re suspicious

of the smile spreading across

my face like a mysterious

syrup, but I view heaven

as a different promise than

they do—no gold brick

streets, no pass harp music,

no robes covering up all

of that glorious nakedness.

I like to think that all passed

souls are finally allowed

to experience pleasure

unscripted and that they’re

all partying on some

archipelago of boundless rapture—

an impossibly large disco ball

where the sun used to be,

a never-ending supply of

the most scrumptious

hors d’oeuvres falling

into every joyous mouth,

cream sherry and creamier

milkshakes flowing as freely

as prayer, the music beating

fiercely like the spent hearts

they’ve all left behind.

James Whitley