Nothing Happening Again and Again

Which is a reminder of not-love, of the
never-touched and unhoused, of withheld
sunlight. That crevice between syllable and
tooth, the one concealed to the south. Look:
the chrysanthemum nods in acquiescence
as thyme-scent and oregano-starred nights
drift from the terraced hills of decades past.
That was loneliness. Walking the road, thumb
out, no one slowing. Not speaking
the language, unable to say the right words.
Visibility’s curse. Life as it could be. But
wasn’t. And every long day, repeating.

The title is from a line in Jack Gilbert’s poem “How to Love the Dead.”

*

What is the Sound of the Cold Moon

Infiltrating the screen. The word for that bleakness
expelled as a blade enters the grapefruit’s
flesh. The fragrance of a burnt night in snow.
I recall shivering on the path between barn
and greenhouse, wondering how one moment
had mushroomed into slammed books and drunken
shouts, the cattle dog slinking at my knee. I
had never sought perfection, had always made
do. Now I question such practice. My body
was a wilderness in a country of yellow lights,
pleasure robbed of delights never shared. Again
and again we perfected loneliness. Later, sipping
tea solo in front of the fire, I heard a screech
owl’s trill. The embers grayed over before dawn.

*

Olive Oil Cake

I am plotting
the next cake
I will bake.
Olive oil and lemon.
Or orange.
Bright, not too sweet.
Simple but elegant,
topped with rosemary
whipped cream.
What about you
I ask. What
are you thinking?

Robert Okaji lives in Indiana among hundreds of books, with his wife, stepson, and cat. His most recent chapbook, Buddha’s Not Talking, won the 35th annual Slipstream Poetry Chapbook competition, and his work has recently appeared in Threepenny Review, Concho River Review, Samjoko Magazine, Evergreen Review, and other venues.