On Dissatisfaction
- On Dissatisfaction
Out of a sky worn into smoothnessjust clouds, and the birds inside the clouds, just my violet lungsacross monthswanting more to breathe.
And the sound of the woodsclose to evening,the color blue laid before the road,sifting leavesbefore nightfall.
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Bringing yourself to summer,bringing yourself to the sun flickering across groundcover, bringingwhat you hope to whatever you see—
and it's true I don'talways want to be here.
What I would giveto be asked,in these murmurous hours, these days
when only the thinlasso of my voice cracks out,only the quiet in my throat [End Page 82] traveling out toward nothing.
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Can you hold out to meanother way.Another time I might havereturned to the town and its arid riverbanks,its mountains,and tried to feel the mythripple through me—
current of slow living, swallowsweaving under the bridge—
What should I dowhen I can't even believe in the happiness I once felt there,lush mornings on the path, to be on a bike andalive—breath
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drawn up into my throat,sharp like the fires that cracked across these hills withinseconds, drove usinside, a red moon hanging through ashas we tried all night tosleep—I tunneled
into you—we were alwaystalking about fire,hoping against it,weighing its omens—
What if you couldn'tever step outside, [End Page 83] if shallow breathwere a form of safety—while here
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I bide throughmorning thinking Never again will you be eyelevel with such heat—a discontent to befought in the wayanything deadening
should be fought, giving awayone day of life with its chipped window, the coffeecooling too soon,to not noticethe sound of thunderacross the water,
lucencies of shifting air, the simplicityof brushing your hair,dark rainsand the thick skiesthat follow, staring
into a stillness before the next hardthundershower, a blacknessin midday tendered to us constantly, the shockingpowers we move among—
the fogs, the waters,the glass of a leaf, aerialpatterns of traffic in deepartistry, farmlands rolling out— [End Page 84] living just in our time,within the bone matterwe were given,
a gust on the ocean,a storm of thoughts, the sweeping peacein every intervalwhere nothing occurs. [End Page 85]
Joanna Klink is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Excerpts from a Secret Prophecy (Penguin, 2015). She is the 2017–2018 recipient of the Amy Lowell Poetry Traveling Fellowship.
