Sunday, May 09, 2010

Brian Henry


My mouth makes ice cream from mulch,
I reach the farther shore. Come, I motion,
& you follow, skidding across the surface
on your homegrown skidding thing. It floats
along famously, as well as any ski.
After a casual assault, the sun retreats.
My elbows have gone all naugahyde, knees
skinned to the bone from the day’s begging.
I bury my nethers in the sand and wait
for your journey to be complete, sand fleas
scatter as if I’d brought a rod & hooks.
The ice cream is gone but it was good.
I nod off & doze, missing the moment
you go under. The skidding thing skids


That’s a baby
you’re holding.

Brian Henry is the author of five books of poetry, most recently The Stripping Point (Counterpath). His translation of the Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun’s Woods and Chalices (Harcourt) appeared in 2008, and his translation of Aleš Šteger’s The Book of Things is forthcoming from BOA Editions. A Serbian edition of Henry’s poems will appear in 2010.