The American Journal of Poetry
"Strong Rx Medicine"®

 

Mark Yakich

A Prayer of Binding and Loosening

 

I say, I have driven a station wagon
Through sheets of rain in bed alone.


Neither an early nor a late bloomer, having
Never met the qualifications of a flower,


I admit, for a very long time I found
Certain genitals disinteresting.


On telling myself that my life was no more
Fragile than anyone else’s, I began to feel


My life more fragile. Once a floor model,
The mattress on my bed propels too much


Of what I do or do not do. For
I know,
I will not witness my own funeral,


But I shall still have to pay for it.
Thusly, I look up at the sky more


Through windows than I do
When I’m right under the sky.

 

 

Mark Yakich

Hue and Cry

 

What’s in a life?
          Yesterday.


What’s the point of history?
          Today.


What in the world do you want?
          Tomorrow.


If tomorrow were already gone?
          Wine.


What does the arc of your life resemble?
          I’ve forgotten.


A rainbow?
          No, I’d have held on to that.


A bridge?
          No, I’d have jumped.


A willow leaf floating on the surface of a river?
          That’s it.


Which—the leaf or the river?
          On.


On?
          And on and of too.

 

 

 

MARK YAKICH's most recent books are Poetry: A Survivor's Guide (Bloomsbury 2015) and The Dangerous Book of Poetry for Planes (Eyewear 2017). He lives in  New Orleans.

 

 

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