2 poems
By James Allen Thomson
Science Suggests Twelve Feet of Snow is Coldest in the Middle Portion
1.
Like air in the center of a gumball it may or may
not be there. Like a manufacturer’s promise for something
different, be ready with all and no expectations.
2.
The result of watching long enough: snowflakes were unique
until recently. My wife had stopped buying ice cream sandwiched
by two cookies. Call it a craving. Call it a come and go. Call it a came and went.
3.
The very tops of my ears are the warmest
because my body feels like a blister
that hasn’t taken form yet.
4.
My strides sink deeper and deeper into these floors.
I am wading into the ocean froth
moments before I become a mermaid.
5.
Some of my prayers are so dense, I have taken to sending them down.
The moment they come out of my mouth, my words take the shape of bacteria,
even after I brush my teeth. Even after I eat carrots, everything is still hazy.
6.
The reach of this grass is frayed at the top–
which used to be the middle. The mower blade is dull.
Yet, the side of a concentrated hand may chop still wood.
7.
The snow inside the entry door stings my feet with surprise
the longer and longer it doesn’t melt. There isn’t any one
thing, or more accurately, there shouldn’t be.
8.
When antennas are built on mountains, the horizon is spoiled
from close up. From a far
enough distance the metal and invisible radio waves disappear.
9.
My strides sink deeper and deeper into these floors.
I incrementally fade like a vertical stick
of butter simmering down on a skillet.
10.
Slow and deliberate don’t always have to be
married. Transformation and disappearance
may not follow the same logic.
11.
Whenever I look through a window, all I see is everything
I want to be closer to. Panes, through steps and stages,
are made for strength and energy efficiency.
12.
The time it took for my words to be translated taught me
how slowly words become words. And that nothing is as it is.
I only like cats that act like dogs. I only like flowers that smell like fruit.
Garden Poem
This is a tomato cage. This is a lament against braces. This is what keeps you upright. This is a bird in or out of flight depending on when your eyes shut and open. This is choice. This is air. This is blinking. This is bone. This is black and white with every other color too. This is meant to hold you. This is the bababa of music without a single instrument. This includes voice too. This is meant to contain. This is weight on weight on weight until it becomes relative weightlessness. This is that small tooth mirror. This is sand polished with sand. Some call this dirt. Call this stone. This is wind blowing bodies of green and white. This is a foot great at clasping. This is a clasp held together with a few screws. A fence. Chicken wire. Twisting and twisting. Twisting. This is vine that some call caterpillar. It is because of the crawling. It is the inching. This is a body with legs that act like fingers. This is a question of when. This is to say I don’t play piano. My sister was good at it, but she hated the lessons. My mother said she hit the teacher, but I don’t know if this is true. Yet, this is true – my sister punched the orthodontist. He stuck his hand in her mouth. More people need to know this is an option. This is change if you want to pick it up. This is not playing anything well. This is yelling, I am fine. This is permission to look up to what comes after you. This is my sister. This is my permission to look up.
James Allen Thomson
James Allen Thomson was raised in Lachine, Michigan where snow and gardens were an important measure of growth and time. He currently lives in Central Texas where he is an English lecturer at Texas State University. His poetry has appeared in Poached Hare, Twyckenham Notes, IthacaLit, fields and is forthcoming in The Swamp Literary Magazine and Barnhouse.