Selected Poems

by Gabriel Ulman:

“Somewhere with Endings,” “Ballerina, Ballerina,” “Us,”
“What We Are And Cannot Say,” “ Pareidolia”

Somewhere With Endings

Beginning with the end I suppose it
began somewhere in Berlin, just one day
after St. Patrick’s Day. To grant us some
grand purpose, you helped me find Mendelssohn’s
grave. Tourists in this dead city of our
ancestors, lost in the fog like two dogs
hunting for a scent long muffled by rain
and wet garbage. Ambling from trolley car
to subway train, bouncing like pebbles in
the earthquake of our failed histories. Your
legs led me forward from black gait to black
gate. You never shared one calming word, just
coughed in sync with the rattling of every
little German machine. We finally reached
the right monument, and stood still in our
terrible silence, eyeing a plaque that
read, “We’re sorry for the inconvenience
but Moses Mendelssohn’s grave has been moved.”

Turning, a slow steadiness, I walked back
in the direction of some western home.

* * *

Ballerina, Ballerina

When she was young we used to make her
stand on the smoker’s balcony,
to keep her full, to keep her thin.
A sweatshirt pulled tight around her throat,
girl in grey on the cold patio:
cough and choke; no one speaks outside.

We take her into rooms
we twist her up on bars,
fold and shape, bend and shrivel
(the origami of anatomy).
She learns to eat less
by strengthening sinew and devouring muscle.
Just skin and bones and hair pulled back.
Pirouette and plié, repeat when alone.
Someday she will break and wither,
someday soon; cough and choke.

Inside her sinking eyes a junkie smiles.
She hunts and gathers,
gets her fix on the violet stage lights:
young woman on display,
shining porcelain baby face.
Broken feet inside pointe shoes:
morphing bone against hardwood—

we never talk about it.

We slap our sweaty hands together,
applaud ourselves, smile and speak.
We keep her behind fourth walls
and whisper about how well she glides.
We open doors to see
how the wind of winter can make her fly.

* * *

Us

You, leaning against the piano while
You, breathing like a metronome, and there is
You, dreaming of sweet choirs means you’re dreaming of

Me, hand tip-taps to another turn in

Me, eyes must pound out the scat-singing lost in
Me, bare foot to brass pedal in and out of love for

You, move to the window like the thunder we found in
Me, staying staid and settled with my thoughts of
You, blue eyes breaking on the glass without

Me, it won’t reflect without light shining on
You, moving your dark hair so you can’t see
Me, sweat like marbles drip-dropping because I’m lost in

Me, mischief to the music in the quiet left by
Me, and I can’t decide who lies with their hands better than
Me, and I’m wanting to leave first but it was

You, and you left a mark on the sill in the dust of
You, replace my heart with hard diamond because of
You, now alone and abused with the genesis of

* * *

What We Are And Cannot Say

If I could I would have the sky send down
the sun whose beams would fill my bedroom, sate
the empty space between with golden sap
and choke the empty words that strike no chords.
Millennia would pass, but we would stay
so frozen stuck with eyes still piercing through
the hardened haze. Oh, love, oh speak to me,
show me the copper ringlets in your eyes
and most of what we are and cannot say
will break the film and free the fettered air.
Oh this, my love, oh this will start your heart,
and this will write the words into your throat,
then we will kiss in amber residue
and we will be the status of a dream.

* * *

Pareidolia

Words
I can trap meaning like a firefly
twist it about and crush it
let the juice seep out and color the night.

We will wake up
someday.
I promise.