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Sam Mayhue Poem
Tonight the sky sagged
as your arms reached for empty space.
My bedroom whispered like wheat
to my sleepless eyes.
My icons pulled me into embraces --
St. Rita, her eyes rolling, her arms slit up,
braided my hair as I wept.
"Oh the things I have seen," she said.
She was dressed all in black.
My forehead leaked on the nightstand
as the lamp offered muted condolences.
Your thoughts broke off from you
and swam in the strained veins of my eyes.
The sky moved for you, my dear, but I
had only the weary movements of my bedroom
and a widow saint with hands of frost.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
And the land looked bleak
after the leaves had fallen
after the birds had gone.
But I was left with Winter hoarseness
and the memory of you
walking toward me,
your jacket the only point
across a cracked expanse of snow.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
I ate gelato in Firenze
in the shadow of a cathedral
whose name I could not recall.
And gypsies, their wide skirts spread before them,
begged in Italian, words I did not know.
But what was I to do --
I did not understand their voices
and they did not recognize my hair
as their own.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
The sun is setting
on the brick roads
around St. Bernadette's.
Her statue is next to my car.
She kneels before Mary
hands clasped, faith apparent.
Tonight they prayed --
the young couples toward the front
the old people one hand on their hearts
the children mumbling to themselves
"Lord, make us saints, give us
strength to bear the cross." But I
could not say the words. I saw
the roots of St. Appollonia's teeth
clenched in the pinchers
St. Lucy's eyes held out before her
on a golden plate.
So I mouthed them like a coward
and fled into the summer air
where I thought I would find Your forgiveness.
Instead all I can see is:
St. Christopher on my dashboard,
the burden on his shoulders.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
You and I are but the wind's sigh.
The break of the ocean against this beach
is your lips' murmur in the night.
You have opened my throat
to feel the soft pattering of infants
and see the shine of a distant moon,
but you have not seen
the evergreen trees trembling beneath my collarbone
or the waterfall spilling from my knees.
You have not seen the silent nuns
that pass along the ridges of my spine
or the hungry crows lined round my heart.
You listen to my breathing
in this lightless dawn and hear
the break of waves off a lighthouse shore.
I wake to find your hands
have the calluses of a sailor
too long away --
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
Heaven was an idle thought
And I am --
I have been the dry bones in the desert.
If you knew black boughs
and residue of dreams
you would know
Heaven was an idle thought
And that I am --
I have been the dry bones in the desert.
If you knew light hovers
behind these blinds (navy blue)
and that light bulbs are as crypts
to a morning's mistaken light,
then you would know.
Heaven was an idle thought
dreamt by a little boy
carried to bed in late evening,
lying in a dark room before the light had fled.
You would know that I am --
ribs gleaming, luminous fragments
pieced together with care.
You would know
that I have been the dry bones in the desert.
If you knew that today the world is sapped
and the colors have fled
that we are moored together by brown patches
you would know
that the green of your eyes
is a lighthouse's beam
and though you have built towers of my hair
mountains of my skin,
and though against my bones,
your bones have lain,
you would know
we are a reflection in a sun
stretching dying arms of orange.
And if you knew --
You would know --
Heaven was an idle thought
And I am --
I have been the dry bones in the desert.
You would know
that Heaven was --
that Heaven was --
that I am --
and that Heaven was --
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
My grandmother gave me this darkness
of eyes and hair. Our ancestors were gypsies
begging, wide skirts, skittish heels
before the doors to cathedrals.
My grandmother gave me this quivering
chin and sharp nose. Our ancestors were insane.
They emigrated thick satchels over shoulders
to the madhouse. We strapped them into bed.
My mother gave me this sleeplessness
and these delicate hands. Hers were chapped,
the threads hanging in graceful threads
so long she never began, she never ended.
I gave me this mutiny heart.
With your hands on my hair
and eyes just below my lips, I
am only aware of the door.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
And the echo grew stronger, not weaker
as I sat on the ledge next to the waterfall,
your head cradled in my lap
until even our skin shook with the sound.
I covered your ears for you as we watched
the sulfur turn clear water to rusty orange.
I smoothed back your hair
but waiting for you to speak.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
I'm two years from here
alone with the echo of the hills.
You were made of stone --
piece by careful piece they built you.
I watched as you churned to life.
You see, I come with my ancestor's traitor heart
and his black hair.
Two years gone, I wake to the sound of your voice,
heavy as railroad ties,
and walk, abandoned,
until the morning sun remembers me.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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Sam Mayhue Poem
St. Therese wakes in the night.
She feels the bees buzzing in her chest
and kneels, naked knees on the floor.
I wake, startled, by a nightmare
that slips from my mind
to another corner of the house.
You are off somewhere else,
breathing in time with the ceiling
that rises and falls with a huff.
I stare into the dark, unmoved,
except for my lips
that offer a prayer of protection.
St. Therese and I pray in time.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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