Today's poem is by Benjamin S. Grossberg
The Space Traveler's Tense
My species has one for nouns
in the process of passing: say,
a planet you no longer stand on
but which still exerts on you its
considerable tug, the fist
of its massy core reaching
up through groin and torso.
A way, then, to say, not I am
on this world or I was, but
that other state, the one
between. We use it to discuss
the dyingthough usually not
to their facesand dinner
as plates are clearedalso love
in its last phases, the sharp
jerk before it too falls back
lifeless on the bed. Therefore
we listen especially carefully
to a soured beloved for
the inflection of ending:
that inflected ending (the slip
like a sheet of paper torn
lengthwise) added to a verb,
a susurrant gut punch.
Once a planet dweller and I
shared years in this tense
reality as if his couch were set
on a cliff edge: moonless
planet in the sparsely starred
rim of the galaxy. We spoke
of ourselves, our common life
this way: never we are, we were
but drawn out years
in a liminal mood. I stared
to get used to itand to him
and imagined an entire
existence like that, hunched
under afghans in dark night,
feet over the edge, dangling.
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Copyright © 2011 Benjamin S. Grossberg All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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