Taylor Graham

Three Poems

CLASS OF ’65

A motel pool. Reunion, after all
these years, brings us back to Old College town
and, waiting for the chips ‘n dip, you drown
instead. We, left behind again, recall
your pranks. Your sudden widow hugs a wall
of fortitude, but she’ll be heading down
the road tomorrow, home without the clown
who made her laugh. And so we scrawl
these fireworks beside the darkling pool:
it’s time to party, drink deep to the name
so newly added to departure’s roll—
but in class photos, grinning just the same.

You used to judge an evening by its thirst,
and beat us all by diving in head-first.

ALL HALLOWS’ EVE

Nothing is what it seems.
This child in Liberty’s skirts
and the boy in the bunting top hat,
who are they, really, by day-
light of a falling year?

That figure invisible except
for the slit of eyes—is she
in burkha or a bio-warfare suit?
And what of the witch, and
what of the cowboy?

Under every costume is a skull,
to every treat a trick.
A candle is a glowing thread
inside the waxy flesh that melts.
I walk beside you in disguise.

And who are you, this late
October night? and who
am I?

BOUNTY

The mouse of famine gnaws at seeds
scooped from the golden cheeks
of squash, while November practices
harsh weather. He lives in praise
of harvest. Inside the pantry,
he nibbles raisins blue and wrinkled
as desiccated eyes; he dreams
of sugared yams. It’s going to be
fat today, and cozy. He sniffs
at mushrooms destined for a wild
rice stuffing, their outside cousins
hunched, pelted with rain. Snug
inside, he sings of roots and tubers,
of nuts and sprouted grains
against the hollow tooth. Just
for today he’ll glut on trimmings,
scraps and condiments, the heart
and liver of a sacrificial bird
with no notion of tomorrow’s
hunger.