Lawrence Bridges
Bio:
Lawrence Bridges is best known for work in the film and literary world. His poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood. As a filmmaker, he created a series of literary documentaries for the NEA’s “Big Read” initiative, which include profiles of Ray Bradbury, Amy Tan, Tobias Wolff, and Cynthia Ozick.
CURIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE THINKING
A fear so great the rabbits moveto Lancaster to thrive with snakesmore poisonous than all others that rattle -
A meal so sweet the nests explodewith beaks that fill the air with arrowsboinging from the rotation of bows to airfoils -
A lover so soft men drop their eyesand use their cheeks and arms to searchfor legs, hands, ears, tongue, vagina -
A head so strong it sacrifices nothing but timefar off in a distant future when parentscan't tell their children from their grandchildren -
A book so short and large it servesas the ultimate risk for free ascent and is nothingto the moon which bathes its crags with soft light -
Nothing makes sleep unlike deathto those who watch for us to rise while aliveto watch them, curious about what they are thinking.
A meal so sweet the nests explodewith beaks that fill the air with arrowsboinging from the rotation of bows to airfoils -
A lover so soft men drop their eyesand use their cheeks and arms to searchfor legs, hands, ears, tongue, vagina -
A head so strong it sacrifices nothing but timefar off in a distant future when parentscan't tell their children from their grandchildren -
A book so short and large it servesas the ultimate risk for free ascent and is nothingto the moon which bathes its crags with soft light -
Nothing makes sleep unlike deathto those who watch for us to rise while aliveto watch them, curious about what they are thinking.
THE FINAL PUSH WEST
The slow choice of pathways cross grainand make me nod like the fiery heads of proteinfeathered for war and sufficiency,arrows of Aztec warriors pointed toward the earth. In the distance: house, bar, store and shed,granary empty and all roads grown overwith abundance, grain by now choosing plows.I'm far away from water except the muddyfurrow my hand could trowel as I squeezemud into my mouth cocked to make the fields a wall,clouds the outskirts of the future’s missing suburbs.I've come here to glide and not repent,the burden of my effort buried in the underground of junk, my treasures.Here I enter time again and pass throughSanta Fe to Pasadena where I'll work on enginesmoving through prairied fields, mole-nosesniffing, pushing and billowing air junkuntil my grandchildren notice and rebelwhen I’ll settle and become a night watchmanand care for my youngest daughter, a surprise,who will mature and marry well. I’ll harbor anger that my grown sons were called up by FDR.There was no fascism in young grainno tanks to plow them uncut, onlynesting places for birds flying north and micereceiving feet and teeth from moist earth.