Rick Marlatt

First Move

Your first move isn’t
to the coffee or bathroom
or open book like a tiny
roof on the kitchen table,
but to each window
in every room

to slide the glass upward
like the rising of song
the toss of a just-shed blouse
an electric lung vacuum
of good air.

Now in the slow murmur
of livid darkness September
rolls through our sheets,
whips behind the sofa,
runs like ivy up and down
cool walls,

and your stretch, all ancient
and real, a golden sparrow
balled in each fist, the
house dancing in a slow
quake on tiptoes to catch
the first move of the sun.
Beautiful morning,
is it not?

How to Potty Train Boys

First and foremost,
do it at night and outside,
a backyard is best,
don’t fuss around with
miniature toilet seats
or aiming for cheerios,
introduce him to the night
where we’re free to take
the form we’ve always wanted.
Where apple blossoms shoulder
up to sycamores and with help
from shadows and tiptoes
can almost see eye to eye,
fireflies, holding their green
breath so long they nearly burst,
do their best to imitate the stars,
and he, pouring rainbow
curves over the easy grass,
realizes you’re not that
much taller.
If you’ve timed things
right, it’s fall and the tiny
lakes you fill rise up
like silver smoke or ghosts,
this will lead you into
a discussion on tradition.
Keep it brief, leave the talking
to crickets and the locusts
who can’t let go.
The moon, a pure white blaze,
will shower you with something
majestic: be prepared for this.
And later, when an old
midnight whisper pulls him
out of bed, bones snapping inside
legs the stuff of corn dust, and on
the slow trail of a willow leaf
or the crown of a ginger-smell breeze
you hear his sigh churn
through the darkness like a prayer,
you know you’ve done the job.