We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner



She’s on life support. Racing to get there,
his Jaguar fishtails on the frozen highway.
She was a beauty and elusive as the future,
his mother, usually traveling on his birthday.

He felt he couldn’t fly, had to touch dirt
every inch of the way. To fly would be
to unpeel too fast the onion of his hurt.

She’d call. He wouldn’t answer. He was busy.

Now it’s ice he notices, gray molars
locking to dark bluffs, the way ice locks his heart
in steely winter logic. Then sun shimmers
on ice, the lock breaks, and love flows. Relief,
oh melting! as he steers toward his mother.

The syllogism that still might end in grief.


Up in the Air

"We are not swans,” declares Ryan Bing ham (played by George Clooney), summing up human nature to a crowded conference room. “We’re sharks.”

Little hall

The labyrinth here, as well!
A canvas floor
copied from Chartres, brought through
the open door,

unfolds its whorl (and stains,
old wax gone gray
with candle soot or soles
that walk to pray).

Long formal curves begin
a common pace;
my shoeless feet take off
through living space . . .

So many rooms—for me—
a vast hotel—
reserved a little hall.


On music

It’s been some time since I donned my best professional earbuds to focus on a question of audio fidelity. But the band in question is the Beatles and the discs part of an ambitious remastering of the band’s catalog.