Taylor Mali
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Taylor Mali talks a little about the poems.
An Afternoon Spent Hanging Art on the Walls of Our New Apartment
for Marie-Elizabeth
These are the things we find beautiful.
And tonight we hang them on the walls.
There is still a lot to be unpacked, but
we need to have our pictures in place,
and tonight we hang them on the walls.
Family photos, flowers, paintings:
we need to have our pictures in place.
A little to the right. Left. The other left.
Family photos, flowers, paintings:
I love looking at you looking at art.
A little to the right. Left. The other left.
Higher. Lower. There that’s perfect.
I love looking at you looking at art.
Come let me kiss you all over, love.
Higher. Lower. There that’s perfect.
This is what we need to do now.
Come let me kiss you all over, love.
There is still a lot to be unpacked, but
this is what we need to do now.
These are the things we find beautiful.
Brickhouse Bar & Grill
We sit at the mill town bar and stare
into our drinks with faces red and vacant
as the brick mills that employed our fathers
and grandfathers, eyes broken like the panes
we busted with rocks when we were young.
And when we hear the train rumble its weight
through town, so close the screeching metal
calls to us to lay our tattooed necks
down on the rails, we all step outside
to watch it pass, look up to it
for redemption or forgiveness
like it's our moon.
Often Enough
for Marie-Elizabeth
I sift through the stuff
that has gathered like dust,
which is mostly skin,
on every surface in my life—
a task no one does often enough—
and notice how much of hers
we still possess—even six years
after her death. Things you
refer to by name
with an arched eyebrow
suggesting capital letters,
or italics, or both,
all of them ending
with the common suffix
of doom at the end.
It is not The Knives of Doom
that concern me—sharp
and deadly though they be—
but things with a greater capacity
to retain her grief: The Sheets
and Pillowcases of Doom,
The Carved Wooden Box of Doom,
and more than anything,
Old Love Letters of Doom.
Why have I kept these things?
is a question no one asks
himself often enough.
And I think at first it is to remember
my utter failure as a savior,
but that is not true.
Rather that which causes pain
it seems I have kept to serve as warning
of all I thought love could do,
the impossible, singular, dark salvation,
my heaven song. I thought that I could
save her, and I was wrong.
So as I burn, and shred, shake off,
and shed, or give away today
these Things of Doom I have dragged
behind me like some baleful skin,
I feel both lighter and wiser.
Not absolved or redeemed
or even in need of such, but
as if in sudden repossession of myself,
parts of me reclaimed,
parts before unconsciously consumed
by flagellation, now free to be employed
in the service of my new life's single purpose:
Loving as best I can. Especially you.
You whom I know I cannot save.
Yes, especially you. Come,
let me tell you something
I've never told you often enough.
BONUS FEATURE: Click here to listen to Taylor Mali's "Call to Prayer."
Bio
Taylor Mali has been making his living as a poet and itinerant creative writing teacher for 10 years. He lives and writes with his wife in New York City and Western Massachusetts. Learn more about him by visiting his website.