Alive
It was in Mexico I understood the universe
doesn’t care. I missed the safe channel
waded across Garrafón in fins. Ocean caught
and knocked me to my knees
dragged me back and forth along the coral.
When I finally fell clear of the reef
water filled my face mask and snorkel.
I ripped them off to breath and scissored my legs
In water alive alive in air.
Thanatos
I stand at the kitchen sink, steaming cup
raised to my lips. It’s the moment I’ve begun
to take the black heat into my mouth. I lift
my eyes to the window, blue light of dawn
tawny wintering grass, sharp cry of crows
cutting across the yard—and something
tastes me. Yes. Takes me on its tongue
or something like a tongue, muscular and limber--
No, not me. Whatever was me, dissolving
dissolved in one quick sinuous lap--
like the long ago day when the ocean I’d forgotten
because it had strayed so close to the distant
edge of the world and stayed away so long--
but silently had been creeping back
to where I crouched, a child, absorbed by packed
glistening grains of wet sand. Lost, I was lost
reaching for white curve or gleam half-buried.
Water swirled past my ankles and even as I half-rose and
half-turned a wave pounced and slammed me down
and pushed me hard along the sand like a pebble
bounced along the suddenly ravenous swirling sand--
like that, but early in the day when the air is sweet and blue
and crows declare their passion and hunger and no one remains
to taste the steaming hot coffee or think about death
because death has already taken me onto its tongue.
An Incomparable Map
after Zen Master Seung Sahn’s “Zen Circle”
i. no path, a river
morning mist curls off the river
steam from a cup rises to meet it
you set your book aside, walk to the edge
keep going until the current takes you
ii. here the river, there the shore
and in the river fish and on the shore trees and in the trees birds
and on the birds lice and on the ground ants and mice and deer
sometimes birds touch the ground and sometimes a snake
eats the bird and sometimes a bird eats the snake
wonder upon wonder rolling past you merrily floating merrily
on the gentle neverending
iii. emptiness
no river no shore
no fish no bird
no brown no blue
no music no silence
iv. the dragon spits you out
where eagle and mountain exchange
wedding vows where stars converge
where honey spills from rocks and bees
wrap the moon in a net and the golden carp
laughs with the stone girl whose tears
are sweet manna are petals are bliss
v. no river, a path
your clothes where you left them
book open to the page you were reading
steam lifting from the tea you were sipping
the river flowing behind you
is not the river flowing
from your fingertips
Christina Hauck grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and moved to Manhattan, Kansas in 1994 where she taught literature at Kansas State University for several decades. She and her wife moved to Lawrence, KS at the beginning of this year. Her poems have appeared in Americas Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and California Quarterly, among other publications.
It was in Mexico I understood the universe
doesn’t care. I missed the safe channel
waded across Garrafón in fins. Ocean caught
and knocked me to my knees
dragged me back and forth along the coral.
When I finally fell clear of the reef
water filled my face mask and snorkel.
I ripped them off to breath and scissored my legs
In water alive alive in air.
Thanatos
I stand at the kitchen sink, steaming cup
raised to my lips. It’s the moment I’ve begun
to take the black heat into my mouth. I lift
my eyes to the window, blue light of dawn
tawny wintering grass, sharp cry of crows
cutting across the yard—and something
tastes me. Yes. Takes me on its tongue
or something like a tongue, muscular and limber--
No, not me. Whatever was me, dissolving
dissolved in one quick sinuous lap--
like the long ago day when the ocean I’d forgotten
because it had strayed so close to the distant
edge of the world and stayed away so long--
but silently had been creeping back
to where I crouched, a child, absorbed by packed
glistening grains of wet sand. Lost, I was lost
reaching for white curve or gleam half-buried.
Water swirled past my ankles and even as I half-rose and
half-turned a wave pounced and slammed me down
and pushed me hard along the sand like a pebble
bounced along the suddenly ravenous swirling sand--
like that, but early in the day when the air is sweet and blue
and crows declare their passion and hunger and no one remains
to taste the steaming hot coffee or think about death
because death has already taken me onto its tongue.
An Incomparable Map
after Zen Master Seung Sahn’s “Zen Circle”
i. no path, a river
morning mist curls off the river
steam from a cup rises to meet it
you set your book aside, walk to the edge
keep going until the current takes you
ii. here the river, there the shore
and in the river fish and on the shore trees and in the trees birds
and on the birds lice and on the ground ants and mice and deer
sometimes birds touch the ground and sometimes a snake
eats the bird and sometimes a bird eats the snake
wonder upon wonder rolling past you merrily floating merrily
on the gentle neverending
iii. emptiness
no river no shore
no fish no bird
no brown no blue
no music no silence
iv. the dragon spits you out
where eagle and mountain exchange
wedding vows where stars converge
where honey spills from rocks and bees
wrap the moon in a net and the golden carp
laughs with the stone girl whose tears
are sweet manna are petals are bliss
v. no river, a path
your clothes where you left them
book open to the page you were reading
steam lifting from the tea you were sipping
the river flowing behind you
is not the river flowing
from your fingertips
Christina Hauck grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and moved to Manhattan, Kansas in 1994 where she taught literature at Kansas State University for several decades. She and her wife moved to Lawrence, KS at the beginning of this year. Her poems have appeared in Americas Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and California Quarterly, among other publications.
