Domenic Scopa
I Regret:
I’m not
An empty bourbon bottle
At a yard sale,
Tarnished
By time’s grimy touch,
Telling myself
My final peaty dregs
Made her sister healthy−
I’m not
The cold bangles
Of the moon on blizzard nights,
Diesel engines droning as
The plows clear out the streets.
And then I bear this grudge
That I’m not a snowball
Hurled between two brothers,
Always becoming itself.
I regret I’m not
The rainy wind blowing
Across the dock for days,
Breaking it apart little
By little−
I regret I’m not
A lobster, there,
Among the strange forests
Of the ocean’s constant
Folding and unfolding,
Glittering shells bony
With light.
I regret I’m not
A coarse-haired brush
That scrubs
Uncovered treasures,
Gathering the golden strands
Of daylight, gathering
All that’s left.
Give Me
Give me the fierce, the limitless oceans,
the tendency of the tide
that does not falter,
the frosted sand,
unanswered letters sealed in bottles.
Give me the winter,
the wasted landscape,
the field without a sign of life,
the resilience of the crackling heather.
And the rabbit as he looks before
he jumps the barbed snare
jumps to breed—
or eat—
jumps to flee the perched falcon—
Give me snow-heavy firs slanted
into the hillside
like soldiers plodding
on their final march. Give me
a question, no response.