Illusion of the First Time

Their smiles all newness, in every brow

a secret inner self so stolen from the air,

in crooks of necks a quiver, one by one,

drumming thumbs and whistling at work,

the way they might say “celery”, a door

before they closed it in the wind and

how their leg moved in a rond de jambe.

This is how I loved them: bits at a time,

laying brick by brick the habit of my care,

choosing which detail could carry load

most, hanging vaults and columns on

the curve of a lip, the tilt of a head, or

sometimes, with deeper work, the

earnestness of opening, the trying

itself created cornerstones that I could

call something like affection, something

not unlike affection or at least attrition. I

could stage a certain longing, if called for,

mourning, or attraction, mock devotion,

sadness of not joining, joy of holding,

all by searching for that thing, that often

single thing that called them kissable,

pursuable, their line when they stretched,

some fry in their low notes, the way they

held their props—it was not unreal, the point

was to make real, to craft not lies or

poor performance but authentic if at

times inexpert truths.

You found the seed

and watered from the wells that you know

best to get a sapling up and ready for

the night. And at that age I had decided

this was a principle that I could offer

anyone. A stranger at the store: his

hayloft hair. The barber’s leather belt.

You plant that seed; you usually don’t

ever get the chance to see it grow,

but given time to do the work and to

rehearse the blocking well, it puts out

leaves and, rarely, even blooms.

It was gardening, or engineering,

cultivation, like a lab-grown diamond:

functional and beautiful and real.

This was safe enough and got some

good reviews, a fine technique.

That’s what it’s all about, is what I thought,

technique, reliability, some grip amidst

the unpredictability up there.

First time I saw a redwood I went up.

Broke character, just absolutely froze—

for the awe of it, its brazenness by just

existing out there, untamed, tickling

the sky.

Someone’s been planting seeds

way longer

than I’ve been at it.

Old growth rises

all around me

still now

there’s miles of new forest in my wake.