Sheila-Na-Gig online


Dan Raphael

dan raphael

Dan Raphael’s full-length book Manything will be published in September by Unlikely Books. Recent poems appear in Caliban, Rancid Oak, Indefinite Space, Red Fez and Mad Swirl. Most Wednesdays Dan writes and records a current events poem for the KBOO Evening News.

The Word Not Said after 4 Dry Weeks

I knew the drain brain strain
the sssiss of tires on wet streets
the highway seems half volume or twice as far
wading birds, fishing birds, birds that can drink a gallon at a time
eyes like aquariums, ponds of something thicker than water
with the busiest possible complexion

If I let my hands out in it they might not want to come in
til they lost all sense of direction and body temp
a sky so thick it begins to show cracks, loss of cohesion
even in times of surplus theres no fair distribution

Do I dry my hair or my feet first,
these rare days my arm pits stay dry
times when looking up is losing focus, increased risk
no matter how regular the surface,
times when the smoothest are the biggest threat
not a time for dancing shoes, breathable shoes, exposed socks

When our driveway becomes lake country
when people move quickly with tunnel vision
mornings I’m unsure where I am or how I got here

Back Then

before color tv, before tv
the color of the ocean
the sound of rain on thatch, on bubbling tar
when the clouds lowered to visit
when the rain could go anywhere
but some chose to be slow, to look around
some rain avoided other rain that smelled odd
that refracted light others couldnt see
strings of rain, bows of rain orchestrating the reeds
before asphalt, before multiple stories
when you plugged leaks but no one plugged in

what in tune could have meant

when collision took months
hear them coming from under the hill
the sun hesitates so briefly before setting
honing the earths edge, sharp daggers of stars
penetrating water but never fields
dive in, to die in
to come out the color of birth but not blood
when blood came in various colors

while rounding a corner in a vast open plain
seeds of sand, plowing with petrified bones,
if we’d had enough fingers, other eyes,
if the food here knew our songs
%d bloggers like this: