by Neeli Cherkovski

I was loth to lead her
this way and too let her go
she claimed to be
my grandmother as she sold
cheap trinkets on the steps

of a temple in hell
surrounded by earth–moving machines
and big–jawed cops
in flimsy uniforms
who have no delicacy

we drove on wide and
filthy streets cutting through
the clutter bits of glitter
overhanging trellises
hiding madmen who listen

to late jazz
of an empire troubled
by populous states
am I falling over
my words tonight?

I felt like holding out
my thumb for a ride
and soon sat next
to a family man
who offered one hundred dollars

in his dancing hands
foot to the pedal I believe
he heard soft words
“Please listen to the muse
who lives on a super–nova”

the red snow sneaks up
you must stop
and let me shout
for supper who never are
afraid of solitude

so we drove into the night
I invested perpetual loss
on a 747 found my way
to silence mid–plane
nook saw below

carpet of clouds
mother lived there
until she drowned in
the Pottery Barn adjacent to
a Vietnamese memorial wall

skies keeps on
going — pillow–like clouds spin
I turn down the poison
older men offer on sidewalks
made of celluloid

             Selah

by Neeli Cherkovski

Sometimes the days stretch
Over the grim machines
Larger than memory
Should allow
And I just have to go there
Because it is no use
To resist the power of the forces
That have come together

I may balk and complain
To others but the fact is
Memory is difficult
Fraught with danger
Capable of driving you mad
Old bolted doors
And narrow windows
Of downtown office buildings

I have to go north of November
In order to forget
Even then it’s difficult
Rising over the Cascades
Cruising an open road
Buying an Amtrak ticket
And lying in bed

Well the train cuts across
Stern barriers in old growth forests
And the breakfast is served
It’s perfect and the coffee
Strong enough

Sometimes wolves come leaping
Down the hallway
Books collapse
As I try to empty
Random spikes of trouble
Snagged on barbed wire
In my brain

A pale green Chevrolet
Is parked in my childhood
Granny carries a black purse
Filled with $20 bills she hands me
When I spin like a top
And dream of sweet young men
Who live under my bed
And make poetry seem so easy

Memories memories memories
I am lost on snow fields
Palms cracked from the ice
Lips bloody with frost
The ancient hunters follow
As I take one moment
To build a fragile fire
From what my ancestors taught

November November
To the north I knew as a child
Complex terrifying memories
Crouching like rabid dogs
I see their eyes gleaming down the road
Time to say hello time to go
Time for musk oxen and men
Who would never surrender
But always surprise
Because they know how to endure

by Neeli Cherkovski

envy is a flower in bloom
on this languid day in March
after the rain dahlias
have gone mad, people

embrace the air, tendrils reach
across the heart, people dine
on greed, cast wary eyes
toward Elysium fields

eyes filled with images
of torture, the collective soul
trampled by armored cars, envy
cuts deep, it is difficult to sleep

I sit in the garden thinking
nothing more than this, leaves
and branches, fences and hoses, flies
and a hummingbird, wire chair

what luminosity, perhaps
in some other garden one would find
statuary, a chapel, four orange trees
a circle of rose bushes, o envy

you are so kind, you seem to cling
to everything, there is no escape
from your probing soul, no way to hide
when you walk through the garden

like a magician, you even have a wand
that turns into a snake, you pretend
to be selective, we see you leaping
into the neighbor’s yard, you slept

in Picasso’s studio, you ate from
Lao Tzu’s bowl, you died with Joan
of Arc, you rose with Jesus, you sailed
with Columbus, you ruled with the Inca

you water the dahlias, you rake
the leaves, you have no doubts about
the human race, it admires you, it
envies you, it clings, you see how

it has awakened to the sun, slept
under the moon, dreamed
and written many books, it makes
music, driven by envy

melodic, it waits by the stream
and crosses at the right time
fending–off the animals, able to
puff up with pride, to write songs

of praise, to elevate some, to downgrade
others, to make permanent decisions
on war and peace, to build hierarchies,
to establish authority, to rule politically

and culturally, to betray sunlight,
to supervise the acorn. O such doings
are the way of life, I sit alone
in the garden bending light