IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD by Carla Carlson GREETING THE BUSINESSMAN AFTER INDIA I have no say over the sky’sgrey determinations. My husband drivesa motorized toothbrush into his mouth.He’s still jet-lagged. A problem is a thingone must change. A kiss. A volume.In the darkness of the bedroomI feel my body sinking into a coffin.I move closer to the sound of rain—rich jingle of coins on trucks and pavement. IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD I look at the rose her thoughtful veins like a special woman who’s unrepentant wrapped in crystal, stapled in Manhattan, at the corner of 44th and Park. Noticed, she’s an eon of silent arpeggios, laughter, a gentle madness, closer to beauty at every angle her head is turned. THE MORNING AFTER WATCHING A FRENCH FILM How silent is the crowd of people rising in apartments.The way to sit is known, the way to eat, the way to plant seeds.I have in my own way caused damage, I tell myself. Each person discovers what it is, cleans the grit, replaces the dead bulb.A woman is a world. A man is a world. Where they connect is a third world.My husband desires a god. Understanding such, I soften. Here, the future me writes— look at Marie, who is blind and deaf and locked. I pass love through my hands over his papery lips. DAISY Freezing, I am alone on the lawn before others rise thinking time is my domain. I enjoy it. Somewhat. Do you wish for greater detail? No. I presume you’ll prefer I remain a voice, as I wish my masters to seem forever strange. I have come a long way to tell you what you can expect from me. A young man wails. He can’t breathe. He can’t stop craving noodles. The sky is subversively blue. My head throbs in the sunshine. This is what I wanted to tell you—I cannot change the world. ANXIETY VS. LIGHT I have no answer when my son heaves down in the chair across mine. He taps his fingers— Aristotle said light is the activity of what is transparent. Who am I? I’m wearing persimmon because’s the sun’s reticent— it’s how I make light. The sky is blue because molecules scatter blue light more so than red, orange, yellow. At the river we are fascinated by reflections on water, red paint, peacock splotch. What if he’d listen to me— the woman who nursed him. About the Author:Carla Carlson teaches poetry at The Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College where she earned her MFA in 2015. She is the author of the chapbook Love and Oranges, Finishing Line Press, and has poems published in print and online journals such as Statorec.com, The Mom Egg, Columbia Review, Prelude Magazine, and YES Poetry. She volunteers her time at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow, NY, where she co-runs a submission cooperative. She lives in Bronxville, NY with her husband. |