Michael Ruby

A Fire

Outside, it rains and rains and rains.
The day’s ruined. The spring’s ruined!
I’m not going to think about the crabapples,
the pink Japanese cherries, the tulips.
I’ll pretend it’s winter, light a fire.
The woodbox needs lightening anyway.
As usual, the fire blazes like crazy
for about fifteen minutes, then falters,
losing almost all interest to me,
like most of my early romances.
Thereafter, it burns phlegmatically,
with occasional snaps and cracks,
but only as loud as a mouse, a clock,
rain on the prematurely gray window.
Only as loud as all kinds of sounds—
an antique footstool creaking,
a kiss blown from a doorway,
a chipmunk running through underbrush....

A log shifts. If I were a character
in a novel, it might startle me,
but all it does is nudge my thoughts
back to my plans for the afternoon—
the list of names by the phone,
people whom I ought to call, but won’t,
because I won’t say the right thing;
my notebook, where I’ve written too much
already this weekend; Su Tung-P’o,
whom I just read for an hour in the tub.
If I were older, I might take a snooze,
but I can’t justify it. Not yet.
Sooner or later, one of the bottom logs
will snap in two without warning;
all hell will break loose in the hearth.
The fire will sound like a row of flags
flapping in a gale, pheasants
flushed from the alders by a hunter,
all kinds of things....

                                    Overhead,
the shadow of the chandelier on the ceiling
will turn into a giant spider writhing.

 

Michael Ruby’s first book of poems, At an Intersection, was published by Alef Books in 2002. His poem “Wave Talk” appeared last winter in syllogism in Berkeley, and other poems are coming out in Lost & Found Times in Columbus and in various e-zines. He is working on a new book of poetry based on phrases from songs throughout the 20th century. He lives in Brooklyn, NY and works as a journalist.

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