August 2021
Bio Note: When I was young and starting out I never could have imagined actually forgetting a poem I had written. Now it happens frequently, even sometimes with poems I have published in journals. This month I continue my rediscovery of older poems that had for whatever reason fallen by the wayside. Sometimes I can’t resist revising these old poems. Sometimes, to my surprise, they seem OK as is. More detail on my doings in poetry and photography available on my website: www.davidgrahampoet.com
Marriage of the Magician
His doves moulting, silks frayed, squeaky hinge on the secret wall behind which rabbits huddle, the invisible curtain covered with lint— he is still the magician, wondrously at home, every flaw erased by the footlights. In the high school auditorium this act is real. A girl in the front row thinks he's looking at me, and volunteers the first time he asks. A spotlight obliterates her past as she climbs in a steamer trunk, blindfolded. He enters a second trunk, grinning, hands high, then vanishes just as the vanishing girl screams. His painfully happy assistant arrives from the wings, tips forward the two now empty trunks as the curtains begin to converge. The girl wakes in a motel by his side, sees ice cubes melted in a plastic bucket, a scattering of feather flowers, paper snakes, and strange lumps behind the drapes. She sees two glasses in their pure wax wrappers. He climbs over her on the bed, still in his tuxedo, asking with bored eyes we've never met before, have we? This has not been prearranged? And she feels her scream halt in a smile so wide it hurts.
Originally published in Painted Bride Quarterly 28 (April 1986).
Statewide Razing
An orange dumpster the size of a small house, parked near the newly wrecked old gym, overbrims with a jagged jumble of bricks and shattered glass, rebar, strips of ripped-up shingles, concrete chunks, oddly twisted lengths of rusty raingutter, pipes blackened and bent, asphalt lumps, and the rare gleam of marble. Statewide Razing: their stark logo a dropped pebble rippling out across my mind: buildings all over the state disappearing, a whole industry devoted to unmanufacture, taking down every apartment house, library, school, and factory in time—clouds of dust unsettled as ghosts, wrecking ball never still, dump truck after truck hauling it all into memory. It's nothing but necessary, this passagework of compost and decay, these dozers and cranes the burying beetles and carrion crows of our outleafing towns, unending turnover of failure and success alike, leaves dropping to September ground, then rising root to twig in due season, raising and razing the night and day of our brief season.
Originally published in Umbrella 7 (Summer 2008)
©2021 David Graham
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the
author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual.
It is very important. -JL