Under the Sky

She tries to put on a face

red smear of mouth

black of eye

to fit in

to belong

not dead   not invisible

not a ghost   not bodiless

someone living

someone within a body

of urgency need desire

with a red leather purse

strapped across her breast

someone lost

with blue eyelids

with a companion paid

to watch over her

to show her gently

when and how

to sign her name

She’s not helpless

She has resources

but her face is unsteady

unevenly applied

a face of clouds

…

I fell today

on the brick sidewalk

landed hard

I sat there

rubbing my knee   slow

to rise    From far away a man

approached

Are you okay?   Do you need a

hand?  

I took his hand     surprised

at myself      grateful

to be pulled up    to receive

his strength

Then I walked on   

aching   thinking it was

good to move   not to let

it stiffen up

…

We’re liquid beings     vulnerable

to spilling     running into each other

mixing

our pools of self

tidal   eddying   muddy

clearing     roughened again   by

wind    by other currents

flowing by

all this carried within

the feeling body

I’m trying to name the unnameable

some things I can’t even begin

to describe      they vanish at my touch

return full force when I glance

away

a longing at the edges

the memory of the liquid body

stirring within the delicate

cradle    of identity

the I that navigates the waters —

of the waters      tossed on them

…

In the darkened room     on the lit stage    

one dancer     decisive     moves toward

the other    lays her palm

on the side of his face    turns

the face toward her    away it goes

turns it again

and away again     over and

over      now tender

now eager     now desperate

now resigned    

            The two are never    

face to face    though at the end

together     each holds the other’s

hand

…

Clouds that all day have been

softly gathering    spill open

unleash themselves       into other bodies

of water      and dust

Though I’m far away    

I imagine the pond

in this rain     the white light leaping up

out of the churned surface

and the trees bending their

leaves      soaked tattered running

with wet

…

Two younger men    hauled him up

back to his feet    then left him

to recover    there at the busy corner

I stopped     Did you take a fall?

Yes  he said  Am I bleeding?      He pointed to the side

of his head     I could see the fragile skin

swelling     Just scraped   

Then he showed me his right arm

all banged up     And there’s a metal plate in my arm

from here to here     (showing elbow

to shoulder)     I didn’t ask     just

murmured sympathy     Maybe

you should go to the hospital

get checked out     No    going home  he said

not far     Let me walk with you a little way

I offered     but didn’t insist  

I stood there     watching him

down the street

…

I watch the sparrows grazing

under the wrought-iron tables

on the red and blue brick courtyard

They hop place to place

pecking     The juvenile follows

the adult   wings all

aflutter   held close to the body

the tips rapidly drumming

childlike     expressive     speaking not

flying      Stay with me

Hilary Sallick is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Asking the Form (Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and Love Is A Shore (forthcoming from Lily Poetry Review Books). Her poems appear in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The Inflectionist Review, Empty House Press, Right Hand Pointing, Constellations, Mom Egg Review, Ibbetson Street, and other journals. She teaches reading and writing to adult learners in Somerville, Massachusetts, and she is vice-president of the New England Poetry Club. To learn more, go to hilarysallick.com.