In a language revealing our connection to earth, these four poems by Michael T. Young explore the depths and dimensions of various human needs such as love, endurance, and solitude…
by: Michael T. Young
Sleepwalking through a Construction Site
I grew up in a lost place, or a place
few found their way out of. Our maps
were so small they didn’t need to be
folded to fit in a pocket, more like
a scrap paper with a note to pick up
milk and eggs on the way home.
Our houses were cradled among mountains
and mountains of fear, fear of what
was on the other side, or at the end
of any road going away from home,
past city hall, and beyond the last
cemetery. In winter there was snow
between the headstones, and a dog
big enough to haul children on sleds
up the hills and race them down.
How did we miss those stones coming down,
those hard hands held up like some
crossing guard stopping traffic—how
did we miss them? I don’t remember.
I was too young then to think of end dates,
or of anything ending, even the snow,
and all the tumbles I took into their mounds,
only to rise again each time, the many times
I rose from the dead, to leave behind a trail
of graves dotting the ground like steppingstones.
Who Gave Them Their Freedom
It was a long hike along the Palisades,
paths skirting the basalt cliffs, these columns
chiseled by the slow ages, and we winding
through the woods rooted in its talus slopes.
Our children chose tokens of exploration—
leaves, stones, and walking sticks.
Here we paused to photograph them
under a canopy of oak and maple shade.
Our way was chosen for us, a safe circuit
followed by many visitors. We neared the
farther end, started the ascent on the stone
stairs to circle back to the parking lot.
Near the top, a path turned into a road,
and rounding a bend, overhead, an osprey
glided past, above the trees, toward the cliff face,
arced toward it and disappeared.
Without thinking, we had all stopped, stilled
at the appearance of such grace, such power
to ride air currents with a force reaching back
to what cut these stone towers over millennia.
Our Most Sensate Selves
How your hand opens to receive mine
like a palmate leaf stretching out, radiant
in the glory of morning sun, discloses
the day in its various channels, sluicing
detritus from the riverbanks. How my
mustache sprouts discrete greys, reserved
like a modest collection of knickknacks
in the attic, thickening their patina of dust,
and a few promising to turn out so rare,
their value won’t be able to be reckoned
by the most astute connoisseur. I feel
our breaths mingle when we lean in to kiss,
and between us this press of desire conjures
trade winds, a circulation of currents so
vast and powerful, it guides every glance
and touch and dream, deepening the sunset
of our lives to a beautiful red in the evenings
when we simply lie together trusting the weather.
Seaside Getaway He ordered the whole deal—a room with an ocean view, continental breakfast, a tour of the local historic district. It was two weeks of an all-inclusive retreat from the life that had overrun what he’d come to understand as his inner landscape, the hillsides upon which he encamped to secure a space against the onslaught of emails, phone calls, meetings—even his family seemed to occupy that place he once had to himself as a stronghold of peace anywhere he walked. The tremors first felt through lakes or ponds, the unsettled commotion of trees, all argued for some invasion, the loss of guards to friendly fire, and once the way was open, there was an urgent need to regain that territory, to find that solitude still secure in caves or mountain peaks. So, he booked a flight for the next month and here, sitting by the warm Atlantic, he listened to its waters relentlessly march without ever gaining ground.
Michael T. Young’s third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine of Water, was longlisted for the Julie Suk Award. His previous collections are The Beautiful Moment of Being Lost and Transcriptions of Daylight. He received a Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. His chapbook, Living in the Counterpoint, received the Jean Pedrick Chapbook Award. His poetry has been featured on Verse Daily and The Writer’s Almanac. It has also appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including Pinyon, Talking River Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review and Vox Populi.
