Antonia Clark

The Tool for the Task

You don't expect a poem to be a knife
or even bread. At most, a glass of wine.
If blade makes you think grass,
you have nothing but grass to cut, sun
to spill. For bread, you go to the baker,
you glue together clumsy wings for flight.

You could be anywhere — an autumn orchard,
a subway, standing at a counter,
a smoky back room, studying discards—
when glancing light cuts through still air,
when a steel-shaped word slices the air.

On the wrong side of the river, a bridge
could be just what you need. In your head
the idea of bridge pulls the far shore close.
On the strength of it, you cross into dusk.

Take a notion and necessary objects show
up to serve it. Would you turn right? A corner
comes to life. Out of nowhere, a boathouse.

Here's the thing you've always needed to know:
It's the language of levers that moves the world,
a dialect of hammers that nails down its roof.

But don't expect a sign, a map, a star.
Go the way of danger, assassins in every alley.
Move now. Leave your glass on the table.

If you need shelter, conjure trees.
If you grow thirsty, a cup.

When what you need is a knife,
when all you can think of is a knife,
then the poem becomes a knife.
Then you have no use for wine.

Winter Sends Me Postcards

Winter sends me postcards, silent
snowscapes in muffled light, trees
splintered against a shattered sky.
Think of my voice as out of the grave
he writes. Think of my frozen heart.
I am the dead weight in your dreams,
the icy hand that slides between
your sheets, that knows no boundaries.
Think of how I've touched you and tell me
you're not shivering, tell me you wouldn't
like to feel my windy breath, beg me
to bend you like a willow, to take
the taste of longing out of your mouth.