Two Poems
Held by the Hammock
Every part of it is designed
to receive:
from the slender hooks
threaded to the tree;
to the white ropes
rayed from the eye;
to the wooden crossbeam
like a telephone switchboard
directing calls.
I am held here,
between earth and sky
by the voices of everyone
I’ve ever loved.
I marvel at the calendar of squares
beneath me.
Everything else
has tumbled through these holes
but here I am, too large!
Secure in a net
slung down from heaven.
Closing my eyes,
I listen: air conditioner, truck—
the wind is inaudible
until leaves speak its name.
Spring
for my wife
You tell me
about snow snakes,
the layers of trapped
air
when water flows
beneath melting snow
underfoot there’s the
gasp
of that narrow space
crushed against the pavement
the bridge’s green steel
shines
the Eastery warmth
of a girl’s yellow dress waves
in the air an ozone
snap
wind digs its fingers into the backs
of ducklings, new as
our ungloved hands
held
lightly, briskly entwined
and yes I love you so
much the icicles
kiss
the sidewalk,
love you so much
no heaven of
frost
could chill the bones
of a leaf when the world
keeps turning like
this.
—Daniel Bachhuber, St. Paul, MN
