by Dan Raphael

doors open out, close in
windows open up, close down
jars open clockwise, close counter

I choose the right key to unlock the kitchen door
90% of the time, the other nearly identical key
is for someone else’s house.
I don’t have a key for my front door
the garage door hasn’t come down since we got here

that time I put my key in the passenger door
opened it, and realized it wasn’t my Subaru
now as long as the key’s in your pocket or purse
doesn’t matter who you are

some homes in Chile (& elsewhere) are built on stilts
when a couple splits up, often one person gets the land
the other gets the house and moves it

could you build a house under an existing house
a house inside a house, a house without foundation or flooring

looked so hard in the living room window
I heard it sigh, no doors, no house number
I couldn’t see past the lawn

by Thomas Feeny

Sarah, waiting

On sultry nights, Sarah
knows no sleep, edgy with summer,
the wet–mouthed kiss. It’s then
hands become shields against bats,
hovering close on leather wings,
shadowing sly passages,
drawing forth the same soft prayer.

Day comes, she leaps from her bed.
In pink slippers, runs to grease up
the frying pan, toss out the cat.
With dippy smile fervently she caresses
the flat iron, wet finger tickling heat,
before pressing a rib–cage of roses
into the man’s waiting shirtfront.
And though blinded by linen’s
white dazzle, deafened
by blood’s quick surge,
not a single button does she crack.

Noontime, Sarah nibbles her egg
as she goes from room to room
pursuing with glinty eye
the vaguest threat of dust.
Elbows, fingernails, into
each yellow corner she pokes
— such rub–a–dub–dub–
scraping away grime, uncovering crimes past.

Until, at last, slowing
into long day’s end,
she lays down her rag,
sighs softly,
and before panes aglow
with evening promise (ever promise)
smiles up into her beloved’s absent face.

by Thomas Feeny

translation of Antonio Machado’s
El casco roído y verdoso

The old boat

The old boat’s shell,
greenish, eroded,
rests on the sand

The tattered sail
drowses in
the sun and sea
The ocean is boiling, singing
its ever–present song.
In the April sun
waves toss and laugh,
trailed by a froth
of milk and silver;
rolling waters ever giddy
beneath the azure sky

Broth of milk and foam,
the haughty brine
reveals a scene
leaning into
easy sleep,
with tide’s afternoon ebb
kissed by sunlight

Amid this dreaminess
a gull drifts off,
floating on the still air
As if asleep, gray wings
glide into oblivion, swallowed
by the sun’s white glow

by Antonio Machado

El casco roído y verdoso
del viejo falucho
reposa en la arena . . .
La vela tronchada parece
que aun sueña en el sol y en el mar.
El mar hierve y canta . . .
El mar es un sueña sonoro
bajo el sol de abril.
El mar hierve y ríe
con olas azules y espumas de leche y de plata,
el mar hierve y ríe
bajo el cielo azul.
El mar lactescente,
el mar rutilante,
que ríe en sus liras de plata sus risas azules . . .
¡Hierve y ríe el mar! . . .
El aire parece que duerme encantado
en la fúlgida niebla de sol blanquecino.
La gaviota palpita en el aire dormido, y al lento
volar soñoliento, se aleja y se pierde en la bruma del sol.