Laura Davenport is the author of Dear Vulcan, forthcoming from LSU Press, and the chapbook Little Hates (Dancing Girl Press). Her poems have appeared in Best New Poets 2009, Crab Orchard Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Sow's Ear Poetry Review, among others. She is the recipient of a Hackney Literary Award, James River Writers/Richmond Magazine Best Poem award, and a Meridian Editors' Choice award. She lives in Savannah, Georgia. ---------
The Year of Small Boats
The motor churns up mud, the tide is low,
the August air heavy with itself,
the August air heavy with itself,
and you ask if I’m afraid to spend the night
with you, in this johnboat tied to the dock
with you, in this johnboat tied to the dock
of an empty house. Off John’s Island,
the road ravels back to pine woods
the road ravels back to pine woods
and plantation scars cut through the marsh,
where we explore the roosts of pelicans
where we explore the roosts of pelicans
and cranes, white smatterings where you find
a small, cracked femur. All summer
a small, cracked femur. All summer
you’ve looked for omens,
squinting behind dark glasses
squinting behind dark glasses
as the dock lifts with a speedboat’s passing,
as though the waving grass and sunlight on the water
as though the waving grass and sunlight on the water
pained you, as from the warped gangway
that leads up to the house, I study the line
that leads up to the house, I study the line
where mud turns into grass. Because I love you,
I ask straight out: Is it my mouth, my body
I ask straight out: Is it my mouth, my body
that could heal you? I’ll lay us down on the oyster bed
where the water laps. You laugh,
where the water laps. You laugh,
say you wish instead to be marooned forever,
open another beer, not ready to forget her yet.
open another beer, not ready to forget her yet.
You tell a joke: don’t listen to men
who give advice. The cooler fills with empties,
who give advice. The cooler fills with empties,
and I think of all the people who have given us
empty offers. When you ask, will this feeling
empty offers. When you ask, will this feeling
get worse? I want to prove this latest loss
has made a man of you. And when you turn away
has made a man of you. And when you turn away
to piss, I take in your brown shoulders and the curve
of your calves. You’ve sworn to remember this
of your calves. You’ve sworn to remember this
as a year of sorrow, but I will see you balancing
that small craft, giving the finger to the speedboats
that small craft, giving the finger to the speedboats
as their wakes rock us high against the dock.
Remember, too, the wasp that circles your green trunks,
Remember, too, the wasp that circles your green trunks,
the way we jump into the mud, sink ankle-deep.
How it is brown and slick, like clay, staining my fingers
How it is brown and slick, like clay, staining my fingers
as I spread it over my arms, my thighs, your chest,
the brown edge of your collar bone.
the brown edge of your collar bone.
If, After I Die, They Want to Write My Biography
—after Pessoa
Tell them I had an excellent ear.
Do not say I deceived you.
When they wish you to describe
my likes, my habits, well,
Do not say I deceived you.
When they wish you to describe
my likes, my habits, well,
some things are personal.
Show off: well-tuned guitar,
shoes lined with mates, extensive
alphabetized library (providing
Show off: well-tuned guitar,
shoes lined with mates, extensive
alphabetized library (providing
I have done these things).
Say I have not passed on, rather
drifted off, as on a ship I loved
or conversation on a summer
porch. Then play all twenty-seven
Say I have not passed on, rather
drifted off, as on a ship I loved
or conversation on a summer
porch. Then play all twenty-seven
mixtapes you made
because you can’t stop grieving,
spend nights counting off
the quiet seconds between songs,
because you can’t stop grieving,
spend nights counting off
the quiet seconds between songs,
the click of the rewind.
When you wake cold, remember:
I miss you most. Don’t think
otherwise. Beg me to haunt you.
When you wake cold, remember:
I miss you most. Don’t think
otherwise. Beg me to haunt you.
Beg my pregnant ghost, round,
open mouth. Tell them I am
wherever you are now.
open mouth. Tell them I am
wherever you are now.
Request for Patience
Documents burn on the capitol lawn,
and the fields are green around Richmond: 1865,
and the fields are green around Richmond: 1865,
war ends as light softens husked warehouses,
pavement blushed with April pollen
pavement blushed with April pollen
while a man stands close to the river,
the bridge he crossed burned away. Worn through
the bridge he crossed burned away. Worn through
and wet, he smells of mold and blood, the sodden
trunks of the cherry trees here, on the cemetery ridge
trunks of the cherry trees here, on the cemetery ridge
above the fall line. Here, where I am trying
this moment to tell you how the grandfather
this moment to tell you how the grandfather
of my grandfather turned away from that city’s shell,
walked home. Again south, land blooms overnight,
walked home. Again south, land blooms overnight,
the lane he walks weaving through maple, turkey oak
and pine, burnt fields and encampments.
and pine, burnt fields and encampments.
In Georgia he buries the last of his things,
and wakes to the slow lilt of bees—his wife
and wakes to the slow lilt of bees—his wife
waiting still, recording each new ruin, the fields
left to the encroaching woods.
left to the encroaching woods.
Now picture the warm stripe of sun on his back
(my hand is on your back), the sudden rains
(my hand is on your back), the sudden rains
pulled from the hills. I do not know how long it takes
to walk that far, how it feels to wait out midday
to walk that far, how it feels to wait out midday
in the shade of an oak, dust covering worn wool
you expected to die in. Who cares whether all this
you expected to die in. Who cares whether all this
is true? You want me to say he made it,
didn’t lose himself in the play of light, or lean
didn’t lose himself in the play of light, or lean
against a trunk (as I would do), entranced
by the quiet. But isn’t there something marvelous
by the quiet. But isn’t there something marvelous
about this waiting? His wife on the porch, shading
her eyes. The slow turn of a day. The space
her eyes. The slow turn of a day. The space
between what was and what comes after,
which is never empty, but full of our own breath,
which is never empty, but full of our own breath,
the call of mockingbirds. Then I say have patience,
have patience with me. Pretend I am that man walking.
have patience with me. Pretend I am that man walking.