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A
Poet Rides Out
by
Bronmin Shumway; After Hours, 2008
_____
These are the moon's hours, the hours
of teeth, winking
and
of the mist on the lake, where two halves
of a paper cup
bob like a split apple.
Funny
little cup: as if it once held
the wealth
of all this water and burst,
a pocket
too heavy with one, five, ten,
twenty-five cent pieces
that finally ripped from itself,
made the world rich.
The
flying buoys were loosed too,
a woman's baubles,
and the fishes were loosed.
Loosed,
the tears of a man
in the window
of a high rise on Lakeshore Dr.,
behind him, a crooked Matisse:
La Leçon de Musique.
Out
riding, I go out riding
offering my own
funny cup, saying, "Fill me, fill me, fill me up."
I sing to the echo in the harbor.
Here
is my grandmother, and here,
my mother's father.
Here
is a nightmare, nibbling
at my palm.
On
Lakeshore Dr., the man
turns from his Pleyel
and puts out the light.
It
was a goodnight,
Mr. Matisse, a goodnight.
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Underground
by Bronmin Shumway; LanguageandCulture.net,
2006
_____
Few have received
what we have reciprocated.
Few,
able-minded,
have looked to starlight,
the triumph of starlight,
and so,
in the midst of this,
our revolution,
we are ashamed to hope.
Those
who were born here
have never seen sky.
It is a rumor, like fruit.
And yet
we sing,
as the stars have done.
Of life,
though we have died,
though we are dying still.
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You,
Everywhere
by Bronmin Shumway; Empowerment4Women,
2007
_____
Walking the stone beach at dawn
I see a small cliff
and make
out, between the coalescing
and yanking waves,
your
face in the rock. Love watches from a lighthouse,
and blinks.
And again,
in the Check bakery's
pastry case
among
the sweetbreads, a loose cherry
on the parchment
is your
mouth. Love rots in me like a tooth, I have known
such sweetness.
Over
the hill, the old house sits
and it is you
on the
swing, holding your guitar
like a child,
singing
to it like a child. It is only morning, and already
you are everywhere.
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The Nightgown
by Bronmin Shumway; X Magazine, 2006
_____
Like the night
has fallen, and will not
let me up,
but instead, takes its bright paws
to my bed,
to the dream of me,
so my nightgown, in a fog,
has fallen.
When I am older-an old woman,
I will think
on this moment.
I will think:
on my mouth
was once
the animal of his name.
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Twins
by Bronmin Shumway; Illya's Honey, 2004
_____
Brother, at the helm of our lives
I imagine us a split egg.
Split now for miles,
fraternal years, fraternal lives
cracking
under the weight
of the dirty gene
and the clean one.
Brother, we are nook and cranny.
You of the great bank heist,
of the skate, slip and
circumvent.
Me of the bank,
storing memories
of wife
and children like tithes.
Me of the sacrament,
blessed.
Me the rock.
On the ball.
Rolling.
From opposite ends of the field
I imagine us two generals.
Armies of cells, attending
wounds, attending knives
sharp
and virile enough
to sever an umbilical cord
once, twice.
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