The Fool
I can always count on the people I like best
to remind me I’m a fool.
But I should keep my mouth shut.
It’s chalked with ash.
There’s nothing you can do about the self.
You have to carry it with you
like the ant lugging an oak leaf over my shoe.
I’m sorry I didn’t see you,
I was distracted
by questions of the self.
I was plotting them on a graph like René Descartes.
to remind me I’m a fool.
But I should keep my mouth shut.
It’s chalked with ash.
There’s nothing you can do about the self.
You have to carry it with you
like the ant lugging an oak leaf over my shoe.
I’m sorry I didn’t see you,
I was distracted
by questions of the self.
I was plotting them on a graph like René Descartes.
Totem
What happened to you
when you were young?
Who hurt you into pride?
You told me once
you saw your face
carved on a totem pole
squashed at the bottom,
brother and sister
grinning above you.
You said you didn’t
want to say a word.
Maybe you’d write it
down and burn it. Why
not? Everyone needs
a ritual. Offer it up.
Maybe then you could
fold away your worn
and stiff wooden wings.
They never lifted you.
They just kept everyone
a wingspan away.
when you were young?
Who hurt you into pride?
You told me once
you saw your face
carved on a totem pole
squashed at the bottom,
brother and sister
grinning above you.
You said you didn’t
want to say a word.
Maybe you’d write it
down and burn it. Why
not? Everyone needs
a ritual. Offer it up.
Maybe then you could
fold away your worn
and stiff wooden wings.
They never lifted you.
They just kept everyone
a wingspan away.
Gospel
Even St. John never wrote
about what it was really like
to be lost: the man trailing
his failures down 10th avenue;
the woman who holds the sky
to her throat and lets it
take her voice; the kids
who forget to tell
the guidance counselor
who they want to be
and end up no one.
Even St. Paul, who was so
full of certainty, which is
a kind of rage, never
heard about the boy
in the hill country town,
the one who wears his
brother’s handed-down
shirt and a battered cap,
who plays his steel guitar
so sweetly,
we all lose focus.
about what it was really like
to be lost: the man trailing
his failures down 10th avenue;
the woman who holds the sky
to her throat and lets it
take her voice; the kids
who forget to tell
the guidance counselor
who they want to be
and end up no one.
Even St. Paul, who was so
full of certainty, which is
a kind of rage, never
heard about the boy
in the hill country town,
the one who wears his
brother’s handed-down
shirt and a battered cap,
who plays his steel guitar
so sweetly,
we all lose focus.
Matthew Ulland’s poems, stories, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, MiPOesias, Illuminations, The Inquisitive Eater: New School Food, Coe Review, Clementine, Badlands, The Meadowland Review, Border Crossing, LIT, caesura, Hanging Loose, The Rusty Nail, and other journals. He is the author of the chapbook, The Sound in the Corn, and of the novel, The Broken World. Find more of his work at mattulland.com
