For All the Half-Children
The first time someone referred to youas my half-brother, I was confused.
A fork in the lightning is still lightning.
for C.
A fork in the lightning is still lightning.
for C.
Portrait of Enduring Love as a Seasonal Haircut
Two years ago, my mother tradedthick ropes of kite string dreadsfor an afro cloud of frost
during summer days when everyonesweated underneath the burning applein the sky, even willow trees
awaited shaking off their heavy braidsfor the first breath of snow. This yearI lent my gardening hands
for Mother’s Day. I mowed the cloud with the grain & dabbed the vapor off the bark of her nape.
Then, my sister trimmed the uneven cirrus & raked with a pick, billowing the living room floor. If anyone saw us,
they would’ve said, Look at the way the earth is giving back rain to heaven, in spite of all the gravity.
& when we finished, our mother thunderclapped a hallelujah at the cotton puff on her head
as we swept up all her winterwith naked arms that don’t shiver.
for M.L.
during summer days when everyonesweated underneath the burning applein the sky, even willow trees
awaited shaking off their heavy braidsfor the first breath of snow. This yearI lent my gardening hands
for Mother’s Day. I mowed the cloud with the grain & dabbed the vapor off the bark of her nape.
Then, my sister trimmed the uneven cirrus & raked with a pick, billowing the living room floor. If anyone saw us,
they would’ve said, Look at the way the earth is giving back rain to heaven, in spite of all the gravity.
& when we finished, our mother thunderclapped a hallelujah at the cotton puff on her head
as we swept up all her winterwith naked arms that don’t shiver.
for M.L.
When You Hum, I’m as Happy as a Giraffe
Tonight is as dark as the back of a throatand you’re playing my favorite songbehind your lips, mouth closed.A song with no name, alwaysin the right key. The melodyand honey of your voice inside my ear. No one at this dinner party deserves to hear this music. Nor can they. They talkof how good business is doing. Newskyscrapers, the stock exchange.And the painter who died this year,his collection now off the market.
Their empty words fill the empty airand we’re saving our breathfor the two of us. Everything we knowabout love we learned from giraffes, who for agesfooled the public into thinking silencewas as golden as their neck, or daylight.
Their own inside joke. Who knew the bestthings are said at night. They say I enjoy you and I’m here in a perfect language without pretense:a low hum, from one tongue to the next. They were discovered by sneaky scientists who spied on zoos—but who here wouldthink to care or catch on, my love?So undress your words from any syllablesor the anchor of letters. Sing again,my sweet one, while everyone isasleep eyes wide open.
for M., the second poem you’ve inspired.
Their empty words fill the empty airand we’re saving our breathfor the two of us. Everything we knowabout love we learned from giraffes, who for agesfooled the public into thinking silencewas as golden as their neck, or daylight.
Their own inside joke. Who knew the bestthings are said at night. They say I enjoy you and I’m here in a perfect language without pretense:a low hum, from one tongue to the next. They were discovered by sneaky scientists who spied on zoos—but who here wouldthink to care or catch on, my love?So undress your words from any syllablesor the anchor of letters. Sing again,my sweet one, while everyone isasleep eyes wide open.
for M., the second poem you’ve inspired.
Juan Wynn, Jr. is a poet living in New Jersey. He recently served as a consultant at the Bloomfield College Writing Center and will be interning at Get Fresh Books Publishing in January 2021. Currently, he is an educator in West Nyack, NY at a school you wish you went to as a kid. His three poems in Banyan Review are his debut publication.
