• Kevin Casey

Five Poems


The Tip of Your Tongue

Anomic aphasia is characterized by the inability to remember the appropriate word to identify an object, a person’s name, or numbers.

When you couldn’t recall your children’s names

that raced from you like leaves red and ochre

down the river that bordered the hospital,

we thought you’d lost most of what you’d cared for,

that kept you here. But the day after the stroke,

we learned it was only the names of things

you couldn’t surface: the handles of objects

and people, ideas too slippery to grasp,

suspended in middle space just beyond

recollection and the tip of your tongue.

Through the following weeks, conversation

became a parlor game (“two syllables,

sounds like…”), and you spoke in poetry

until the rewiring was complete,

and the world’s captioning reappeared.

And yet I’ll confess--although I treasured

each step as you got better--I wanted

that poetry to remain, to watch you

push aside the symbols, and labor

through frustration to share the living heart

of what made up your world--“bird leaf” for feather,

and “word box” for book. And most of all

I wanted to watch you, with every glance

at me, retrieve--not the shortcut of my name--

but just what it was that I meant to you.

Self-Pity

Considering the person that I was

just past childhood--ignorant and beautiful,

adrift in an awful world with only

a trunk of oddments stored in the dorm room

of a friend, a backpack and sleeping bag,

and no more than a nickel to his name--

I find myself feeling sympathy

for that young man, a type of self-pity

for a specter who can’t profit from my care,

and who, if he could see my mortgages,

packed calendar, and over-stuffed garage,

would no doubt feel his own sense of sympathy

for a phantom so weighed down, his pity

mixed with terror at this premonition.

Pocket Watch

In the endless mending of this antique house,

I discovered a pocket watch last fall,

tucked into the eaves inside the hollow

of a soffit among shards of chicken bones

and shredded paper--trash and stolen oddments

that formed a long-abandoned rodent nest.

Suspended at the top of my ladder,

held within the air and in that moment,

its cold metal weighed heavy in my hand

as it grew into a fable, sunlight

glinting on its smoky brass and bezel

for the first time in a century.

But the name “Waltham” written in flowing script

on the movement was a one-word story

missing its moral; all the traits of a myth

were in place, except its significance:

time stolen back from a long-dead rat--

a metaphor whose meaning stayed hidden.

Hear It Out

In just three notes I recognized a song

I hadn’t heard in decades, and pressed “seek”

again to let it play itself through--

without sentiment or nostalgia,

with no need to climb down the frail trellis

of its staff to the summer of that soundtrack,

walk the eighth notes of the chorus to the bridge,

and wander lost in reminiscence.

I let it finish instead out of deference,

the sort of which you’d offer the elderly,

as they rise with effort to speak, regardless

of theme or occasion, the way you begin

to read obituaries at a certain age,

bearing witness to ensure that someone

observes their passing, hears their song,

in hopes that someone might return the favor.

Hands

These are days you try to reassemble

like scattered fragments of a treasure map,

now that your hands have grown blunt

and calloused, burdens themselves

you’re made to carry: the modeling clay

and finger paints, the taste of melted snow

sucked from the round ends of woolen mittens,

before the confused form of digits woven

with those of a girl whose last name is gone--

the clasp that signaled the end of childhood.

But those few years remain a hidden country

known only by the fractured account

told by a ghost, of the toad that hopped back

to the driveway’s dust after leaking cold pee

on your palm, a grasshopper cupped from the tip

of a timothy leaf, spitting a stain

of tobacco juice on your finger before

clicking away toward the summer sun.

Kevin Casey is the author of Ways to Make a Halo (Aldrich Press, 2018) and American Lotus, winner of the 2017 Kithara Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). And Waking... was published by Bottom Dog Press in 2016. His poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Ted Kooser's syndicated column ‘American Life in Poetry.’ For more, visit andwaking.com.


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