Philipe AbiYouness

Deliverances

All the bright yellow signs say,
Private Property. I thought if I could say something
meaningful enough, I would be closer to finding
material comfort, but people I love have been saying meaningful things
for years, like, Why did you marry me?
and All we want is good health
and peace in our countries. I was wrong about meaning,
it is not owed to anyone. Rows of irises,
planted by hand, not owed to anyone. Once, in Jersey City, I waited
for the bus to Hoboken, waited until I was late for work,
and when the bus came it drove right past me
and a stranger, who was waiting there too. That year
was full of meaning, so much so that I could draw lines
from lung to lung and street name to street name
and they would constellate. I mean, the bright yellow stars,
who are, in ways, made of breath. A bear. A body
of water. Stainless steel pan. When you are tired,
it is off that starthing I will feed you.
What if the constellations are real, but never intended to be held
in a human language? In other words,
yes, a bear, but also something else entirely. Like most things,
meaning was too late. I tried to tell you this,
but could not find you, or where you had gone, though I searched
the airports and telephone poles, though I clocked
in and out. It was then, I knew, how useless a thing
a poet could be. I swelled along the backroads
of my hometown. Where were hawks and occasional
fields. I could point and say, a friend lived here
and here. Here, her stepdad still does. How stupid
and full of meaning I felt,
delivering food to strangers in my hometown, but so what?
It’s hard to tell you how funny it is
when the bus arrives an hour late and speeds
right past you. Such is the kind of disbelief
you have to feel in your body.