Four Poems by Tina Schumann

3rd Annual Contest Finalist

Another Sunday

And the eggs have been broken.
The bacon laid to rest. The belly of the dishwasher satisfied
at last. Oh, satiated coffeed world with your mind

in reverse and your soft body bound in flannel sheets,
how have I come to you again?
In the crash of weekday waves breaking

on the splintered porch, in the gravity and weightlessness
that hefts this ball of earth, its rotation part ritual,
part benediction. How I covet the hours

we will spend in the endless hedge grove
of banal and quiet tasks; picking up the magazines,
shaking out the doorstep’s mat.

In the yellow state I am in I cannot divine the day
or fathom a future form. From here it’s nothing
more than alliteration of motion. Though the calendar

pinned to the kitchen wall gapes in silent notation,
all attempts at formulation remain null.
Tomorrow I will don my grease-coat of complaint,

my lab-wear of ego. I will stand in the doorway
and admire the way the shore so soon becomes
the ocean floor.

Winter, Affirmation

Outside—
the peonies are beyond their deaths.
In here—on our continent of a bed—
we are busy showing each other pictures
of ourselves: mouth to rib, back to belly, palm
to hip. Here is the reciprocal breath, the sanctified
taking—my only chance
at reformation.
All day long I live in my head
and as the house bends toward twilight
you say, See here, you’ve got it all wrong.
Lie down. Get a load of our quiet profiles.
Outside—
the tubers have turned inward,
away from the light.
In here—in our cathedral of a room—
we are busy ridding ourselves
of words, holding our faces
to the mirror. Carrying out
our best directive.

Home Redux

This morning in the garden 
           the soil smelled sweet.
Something beyond root
           or loam.
Something about skin
           and the body.
Say mother 
           or perfumery.
Say memory....
Last night I dreamt 
           of the old house again.
The rooms appeared larger,
           hallways deep and wrong angled.
No end to the floors, 
           no out there.
Only more doors, lamps on bedside tables
           turned low, dishes draining 
           on a sideboard. 
Why that house 
           when there were so many others?
That house
           where there was never remedy,
only more inquiry; unopened boxes, talk
           of paintings and rugs lost in transit—so much left 
                      behind.
Today the grapevines reach 
           their long arms over the roof 
           of this house
and I wonder 
           at memory’s storerooms.
At our capacity 
           to accrue 
the framework of windows, attic and crawlspace.
           Because I could not work it out then 
I interrogate that house again and again,
           run the tips of my fingers 
over plaster and paint—like a blind person 
           feeling my way
along the backs of chairs and across lampshades.
           I make my way through 
the tyranny of rooms.

A Seasonal Accord

Nettles grow tall just beyond the backyard fence,
out of reach—all season—growing on the sneak. 
I hear them scuff and sway across the wood.
I haven’t the heart to cut them dead.

It happens every year,
the same tacit alliance—
the same exchange 
of life, death and resurrection.

I peruse catalogs of false potential,
eye the seductive carnage-to-be.
Each page more raging with chi
than the one before.

Digging at the roots,  
turning under cover crops, 
I bend to the bed, rotate and plow. 
Play at the putting off—

the inevitable prize of rot.
Though every adolescent sprout is pleasant, 
congenial, a charmer full of fibs 
and propaganda. Still, I can’t help but ask;

When does the real work begin? 
When does the sky give leave 
and let reason fall to the ground?
Why can't I just say it?

I do it for the loss, the fragility, 
the decay so achingly sought
and the bloom never as satisfying 
as the falling away.