Judy Phelps
The Rubble
a golden shovel after “Pompeii” by Bastille
In the afternoon on Tuesday I
stood under the fragrant jasmine. It was
flowering bright, but the bees had left;
the edges were starting to
show papery brown. I lifted my
eyes. I remembered being drunk on my own
dizzy nectar, long before electronic devices
sucked up the cobwebs from the many
small spaces in between moments. Those days
were blossom-heavy: of course they fell.
Of course the bark of desire peeled away,
exposing the whitish grain, smooth with
routine, round of daily tasks underlying nothing,
the meals, the dishes, the recycling to
empty. Everything for show.
Lungs full of time/ and
jasmine/ the
scent rushed in/ walls
went transparent/ sunsets kept
me suspended/ evenings tumbling
over my shoulders/ breaking down
as desire filled up/ emptiness in
between buildings/ in between the
mountain and the mountain/ from city
stoplight to bus stop/ that
it could expand/ to take up/ all we leave open/ that we
could name/ that expansion/ love
Enveloped in gray after gray,
my body a bulk of clouds,
every night I roll
away. Every morning I turn over.
I am sorry for everything. The
earthquake barely stirs the hills.
My throat is old, slowly bringing
up the cold ballad of darkness,
rounded plainsong from
my childhood, O holy spirit above.
But
the moon is a lens: if
you look through it, if you
click in and out of focus, close
and open your lashes, fill your
lungs with stars, clusters of hope appear in your eyes,
round and luminous. True, hope does
not seem likely after the disastrous 10:00 news; it
shines strange on the disorder – almost
neglect – of your garden. And you may not feel
it tonight. You may not like
hope yet. You may think nothing’s
been bright since the tides changed;
but the moon hasn’t changed at
all. It’s you who ebbs and flows, that’s all.
Most earthquakes are small, and
most volcanoes erupt underwater. If
you’re worried about crumbling, you
should check for rot and peeling paint; close
the gap where termites get under your
foundation. Every day your eyes
go dry if you don’t take the time. Does
maintenance make space for wonder? Or does it
sand down surprise to the grain? You’re almost
flat without texture these days: you feel
whatever you see. Liquid, you pour, like
you’re looking for a shape you’ve
never worn, a blossom you’ve never been,
a ballad that was playing here
all along, a disaster that’s never been dreamed before.
Meg Yardley lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Salamander, SWWIM, Cagibi, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and the Women’s Review of Books.
Judy Phelps currently resides in St. Louis, MO. Judy has found practicing her craft in various forms, such as acrylics, oil, or watercolors has a calming and relaxing effect, particularly during these divisive times. Landscapes, specifically trees, the ocean and lighthouses are favorite subject matters.