Six Poems

by Kristen Dunn

On Day Four

וַיַּ֣עַשׂ אֱלֹהִ֔ים אֶת־שְׁנֵ֥י הַמְּאֹרֹ֖ת הַגְּדֹלִ֑ים אֶת־הַמָּא֤וֹר הַגָּדֹל֙ לְמֶמְשֶׁ֣לֶת הַיּ֔וֹם וְאֶת־הַמָּא֤וֹר הַקָּטֹן֙ לְמֶמְשֶׁ֣לֶת הַלַּ֔יְלָה וְאֵ֖ת הַכּֽוֹכָבִֽים

God made the two great lights, the greater light to dominate the day and the lesser light to dominate the night, and the stars- Genesis 1:16

And on shabbat

I met a guy

who said he studies astrophysics

He told me that

There’s a chance

There’s a duplicate

of each person

floating in another galaxy somewhere.

When I think back to my past,

I can’t help thinking he is right

because that would mean

the feeling in my gut that one night

the feeling of no time passing

maybe time stopping

nothing was moving

except our mouths

using language

then using our lips

and it was that feeling in my gut

that I was right where I belonged

finding out only minutes later

that I was wrong

But now I can say

that feeling in my gut about us being right

was right.

Except it wasn’t about us.

It was about duplicate you

and duplicate me

looking up at the same stars

from a whole different galaxy

And duplicate you

Didn’t take advantage of duplicate me

And that feeling in my gut that things were right

was right

If it’s about duplicate us

In a duplicate reality

And that means I can go back to trusting myself,

knowing that I was right,

not blind-sided,

more like psychic,

looking into the lives of duplicate you

and duplicate me

and mistaking it for our own

because if there isn’t a duplicate us that I psychically channeled,

I sit around

Cold,

Crying,

Alone.

I walk to the coast,

find a boat,

I push it out into the bay

and begin to row.

I perform a meditation while rowing,

breathing in

and out

with each

stroke of the paddles.

But it doesn’t work.

Because what good is it to breathe this air?

When the ethers have lost all purity?

I row out into the bay

as far as I can go,

thinking about how

I once had the world

in the palm of my hand

I was young then

Now I’m older

I had opportunities that

Won’t come again

I met the wrong people

And now it’s over

I look into the sky,

trying to find a star in the midst of

the San Francisco fog

and if I find a star

I can guarantee that

duplicate me,

my innocent,

wide eyed

angel

duplicate me,

who believes in simple things

like trust

and wishing on stars,

is watching the star too.

I place myself

in the perspective of duplicate me,

the one who God deemed the greater light,

while I was assigned the lesser,

sentenced to a life

where the only trustworthy entities

are the stars.

As she and I watch the same star,

we can share that moment.

And that shared moment

is the only thing connecting me

to a life where the world

makes any type of sense

and I can feel any type of peace

Own World

I

I stare at my ink-stained hands every morning and every evening.

I begin my mornings

ocularly tracing the splotches of ink,

losing track of where the ink ends and my skin begins.

I have not accepted this condition.

I have purchased every bottle of soap available in San Francisco and London.

I have visited every chemist in San Francisco and London.

They all offer promising concoctions,

only for every attempt to fail.

On Monday evenings,

I scrub my hands under

running hot water in the bathroom sink.

My eyes float up to the mirror,

catching my exhausted reflection,

then back down

where I notice my hands are red, nearly raw, and nevertheless,

still ink stained.

I defeatedly turn off the water and allow my eyes to lift back up to the mirror,

but instead of seeing my reflection,

I see a flashback of what brought me to this complication.

I say to myself,

It is better to be in a place

that is one’s own world.

A place that presents the past in my mind,

but does not play the past in slow motion

And this presentation does not

Stop

When your face comes to surface

II

Because there was a time

when I was sitting on an old couch in a living room in Tucson, Arizona

and surrounding me were men playing guitar.

I was lifting a glass of cheap red wine to my teenaged lips

when the acoustic waves washed you into my head.

Upon my acknowledgement of your image

as merely a recollection of you,

my stomach churned with a feeling unfamiliar to me,

regret.

After swallowing the wine which I then noticed was stinging my throat,

I made eye contact with a guitarist

just to verify that the silent pain within my eyes was loud enough for others to notice,

and it was.

I returned to Chicago a few weeks later,

sick to my stomach

and in need of a doctor.

I reached the end of my travels,

could venture no farther.

I did not even consider

if my sickness had anything to do with your absence.

III

I never told you this, but

it was because of that moment in Tucson

as well as my ignorant belief that I could correct your absence,

I decided to sacrifice the next five years of my life

convincing you I held glue

that was strong enough to mend us.

But I couldn’t fool you.

As you held my letter,

poetry enclosed,

you saw that I did not hold glue,

but ink.

And you went along with it just to get by.

IV

I will admit to everyone now

that along the way I fooled myself

because after glue dries, I can delicately peel it off my hands.

When the time came when I no longer wanted your absence corrected,

I began to peel the glue off each finger

only to recall that I did not spend five years playing with glue,

but ink.

And I can’t peel off ink.

Ink stains.

I stare at my ink-stained hands every morning and every evening.

A Coin and a Wish

What is real is

I have been thinking a lot

about how I have been on this Earth for almost 30 laps around the sun.

What is real is

I have been thinking a lot

about how I keep pressing the elevator button to go to the rooftop

just to endure the frightful ride of it

crashing down instead.

Is that button that claims to go to the 26th floor real?

I have been wondering if the rooftop is real?

If it even exists at all?

In my first few laps around the sun

I could feel the sun

and taste the chlorine in the pool on the 26th floor,

but those memories get so distant

and I wonder if they are real.

What is real is

although I haven’t been able to reach the rooftop,

I find solace outside

near a body of water.

What is real is

the way I am kissed when I am by water

and how within the kiss I can taste chlorine

from a pool on a rooftop.

Never mind the taste of chlorine

Never mind the way it made me feel

The waves wash it all away

and I wonder if any of that was real

What is real is

I still go back to the water

to throw in a coin and make a wish.

I trace my fingers along the rounded edge of the coin

which reminds me of an elevator button

that can take me to a rooftop.

I cast the coin into the lake and

the breeze uplifts me,

an elevator going up,

not down.

What is real is

if I could throw myself into this water

and start over again

I would

‘nt.

Because don’t you see?

I am now used to the feeling of the elevator falling down.

What is real is

I am forgetting the taste of chlorine.

I am forgetting the sky.

I am forgetting the skyline too.

What is real is

I have been on this Earth for almost 30 laps around the sun

and I have been thinking a lot about chlorine and pools.

Postpone

I left my political philosophy course

after exchanging phone numbers with my group members

for the debate we had to prepare in favor of the free market.

We had to construct the slideshow,

plan our delivery.

I had to research Friedrich Hayek,

write a speech on his path to liberty.

But I have heard this debate before.

Just find a group of Midwest hippies and there is always one guy

with coke in his pockets,

arguing politics,

advocating for the free market

so he can feel more intellectual than

his stoner friends.

And as the guy with coke in his pockets

was arguing politics

in favor of the free market

speaking absurdities

conspiracy theories

paying no tribute to welfare

or government funded charities,

it made me think of the time

I checked my dad’s mail for him.

As I read the receipt for his donation to the food bank,

my dad’s response was,

“Everyone deserves to eat.”

Because in my home,

you gave to your neighbor

and the free market rightfully needed regulations.

I come from the hippies who cared about what was just,

not what made them look intelligent.

I left my political philosophy course

to go to the hospital

where my dad was regaining his strength so he could undergo

yet another cancer treatment.

I walked into his hospital room

and he told me to sit down.

Once I was seated,

he said,

“My race has been run.”

I never let him know what I was thinking,

but all my life

I watched him postpone his dreams

and how easy it is for life to use you up and wear you out.

A Daughter’s Villanelle

I arrived, my mom and I meeting.

Born in a hospital bed and with the doctor’s

permission, I, teary eyed, and my mom leaving.

A baby and mother, I warmly received her greeting.

I rested my head on her left shoulder,

I arrived, my mom and I meeting.

I listened to their marriage, always noticed the screaming

about how she had plans of being bolder

and with teary eyes, my mom leaving.

The living room was where my mom did her sleeping.

I’d wake up early and watch VH1 with her.

Sunday mornings I arrived, my mom and I meeting.

Growing into teenage years, my youth fleeting.

I was no longer her child, but her threat. Getting older

with teary eyes, and then my mom leaving.

In my mid-twenties, how fast my heart was beating.

It was the end of December and getting colder

when I arrived, my mom and I meeting.

The doctor said, “say your goodbyes.” I, teary eyed, and my mom leaving.

Vertigo

 ויאמר ערם יצתי מבּטן אמי וערם אשוב שמה י–ה–ו–ה נתן וי–ה–ו–ה לקח יהי שם י–ה–ו–ה מברך

He said, “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the LORD has given, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.”- Job 1:21

Matisse tells the story of

Icarus,

the abstract shape

embedded in the sky.

If you watch Icarus

with close attention,

his chest will open up for you,

revealing his

last secret,

a bleeding red dot.

A description next to the print explaining how,

Icarus, with a passionate heart falls out of the starry sky

While staring at the artwork

I hear a voice say,

“Just as the sun gives,

the sun can also take away.”

Falling from the sky

is there a betrayal that’s worse than celestial?

Crashing through the atmosphere.

A case of spiritual vertigo.

And isn’t it such a natural instinct?

To want to move a little closer to the sun?

To want to recharge?

There was a moment before Icarus fell

when his life didn’t feel so hard.

He was surrounded by warmth and comfort,

feeling ecstasy in his wings that were melting

He was surrounded by light and shelter,

feeling ecstasy in his wings that were dripping

down his body

like candle wax

there was a moment he enjoyed the feeling

of his warm embrace from the sun

and he couldn’t see what it was doing

until he fell

with a passionate heart

out of the starry sky

If only there wasn’t always a fall

Anytime we attempt to fly

BIO: Kristen Dunn was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. She received her bachelor’s degree from Loyola University Chicago where she graduated cum laude in English, creative writing, and philosophy. She is earning her MFA in writing at University of San Francisco. She is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Leaves to Stay (Cyberwit.net) and Sun in My Eyes (Cyberwit.net). Her poetry has appeared in many literary journals such as Dream Noir, Voices, and The Write Launch.