First Task

A Poem

The first task is a slow unpeeling
The way a wet grape loses its translucence to the light
An unbuttoning
Letting the heavy, inherited weather of being someone
Drain through the floorboard
To stop being the wick
And become the heat

Go live
A landslide’s unblinking eye
No safety glass between pulse and pavement
No rehearsals
A raw, scratchy voice refusing to be a recording
The friction of skin against a new moment
That will never be archived

We press ourselves against the ink-black chests of dead poets
Their stanzas shifting under our tongues, ancient and tremulous
They know the flowers of the soul
I inhale their dust like a narcotic
Tasting the salts of centuries run out of breath

When errands run are the new high mass
Buying a single apple or a box of staples is a radical act
The hardware aisle contains a velvet current
The weight of brass hinges in my palm feels confessional
I can’t accept any more missions
When the world demands a blade and asks you to be the whetstone
We resign from the industry of purpose

Maps get shredded
Dried snakeskin outgrown
The geometry of your shoulder blade is geography that doesn’t feel like a lie
I can’t hunt for there when here our shadows tangle on the kitchen tile

So stop hunting
Feeding memories with our own blood
The mystery isn’t behind a locked door or distant signal
It’s the silence between heartbeats
It’s the way the light catches the frayed edges of daylight and doesn’t look away
I’ll remain in the unmapped now
Where what I seek I’m finding
Our bodies coming home on the floor