Indiana, Not Indiana
by Sam Ross
Was it easier to ignore the sky stealing
between hay bales? To mumble heartland
heartland among the velvet kneecaps
of calves knocking up against your own,
warm white bottle held in one hand
a furred throat undulating greedily
in the other? In fact, it wasn’t. Who would
resist arrest in this sense: succumbing
to the pleasure of astonishment. Then
in New York the squash flowers were
soft orange lozenges stirred by taxis
rustling headlights around First Ave’s
isolated median. Indistinct conversation
surrounded you, some rumor about a storm.
Appetite pitched to a thrill for nightfall.
Livestream
Now, years from now, years ago, now again
we want to fathom breaking points.
We long to know what everyone wants
and how to get it. That’s politics.
As my father says, everyone’s heart is larcenous.
Today, they’ve decided something—
maybe it’s not the same thing
but they’ve decided something. Material?
Unstoppable? Say anything:
I killed a man, I started a war, I disappeared
and now I’m back. Ask anything:
Who’s next? What time in the morning?
And when we leave? Where will we go?
All afternoon I watch some run bravely
across the bridge. When the sun goes down
I turn on the projector, stay late
at the office with my friend
drinking wine, watching more. Maybe
it will come to Nothing lasts forever.
What do you remember?
As for tonight, people run against tanks
and the tanks turn back.
Tableau Vivant
Seemingly endless, this pose,
but what I want is not
only my unbroken line.
What I want is you to see
what is backlit, behind me.
Not the silhouette—
but the negative space
I make blocking light.
A glimpse of the thin
boundary between witness
and essence. You can see
what I love by the way
I decide what is worth
living for. This is not
a trick—I can sense how far
we are from the end.
What I want is you to see
the flame tucking
itself in. What I want is you
to see the fuse alight
and in reverse. Before you
a burning pinwheel
reels back to its beginning.
Look at me.
