Theresa Morris

Open

Then I knew why she took care of the cricket
with the broken wing
bringing it slowly home and releasing it in the garden there.
She sees
the beautiful appearances of beings in the world
as they are
The raven rasping on the wing
deep quiet in the winter wood
where the pale gold beech leaves
hold fast to the branch, where the witch hazel buds are secret fire
waiting to burn
and all else is white and blue snow and sky.
Next to the garden, in the garden now
I listen for the crickets but all I can hear
Are the lights
all sharp falling in angles and
traces of animals all through the snow where
our tracks leave a trail which comforts us
in the cold darkly intimate spaces of the winter wood
and I know
that I can be thoughtless
Reaching down to brush away the pale green insect
from the back of my hand
in the garden
on a hot afternoon
I tell myself it is nothing
expect nothing
I say: be more ordinary do not cling.

—2000

Abyss

Let’s try to remember
the abyss
has a source
is a becoming
a pool of water we swim in
amniotic fluid
nourishes us
feeds into us rearranging
suggestive
ways of being possible
it magnifies and telegraphs
it turns us around inside out and
we enter and leave

We can’t see the source
we sense it peripheral somatic
we are released by it and into it and return to it
again and again
it works like water to wear away our careful structures
restructuring all things
and is itself
returned to itself

Chance is not so arbitrary as it seems
luck has a dimension of recognition
and a little thought goes a long way
I’m not denying that we’re not in control
but down from the mountains
spills a small stream
its source is a spring
its end
the ocean.

—2008

His House Was An Abandoned Home

His home was an abandoned house
its stair tilted and cornice pockmarked
weeds grown up around, harboring black snakes
stretched lazily there.
Mute in the dark surrendered, shade of a boy
listening in the quiet
to the alien heart within susurrus
murmurs dreams of dust rising from bare feet
a hot day on a long road
and remember tears dropping into the dirt, repelled.
The silence of the house is broken by dust motes
swirling reflected in the barred light seeping through
the blinds shut
the sudden shudder and creak there unseen
ominous yet subtle and indistinct.
His face small and grave he hides quietly
carefully breathing while waiting himself abandoned to the inevitable
fate that approaches like a devouring tiger in the night of that darkness.
Death comes in quick gasps but
before it effaces him completely
I enter
and open the window.

—2004

Keep Small Talk

Often one finds oneself where nothing looks familiar because
it all looks the same.
Faceless details accumulate yet signify nothing
It cannot coalesce because it is interchangeable
There is some quality I have which is lost or I’ve forgotten it
and fear makes a pattern leaf-like when
I want to shut my eyes and dreamless sleep
I want to be alone intrepid and
know the whereabouts
and reach out and
put my hand on everything of value
Look out and see what we have the most of
when the virgin appears in summer and says
You are walking around all new and complete while I spiral down
grasping at handholds ripping out as I accelerate
They are chanting about a sacred journey, urging me to enter the wheel
I sympathize with the quiet panting desert, I know the smell
Watch me huddle with my arms around you as death circles in
and I keep slipping into a dream insomniac
fragile battered phantasmagoria all around
bitter moments return from the past, taste acid
yet I keep going, provided you are relying on me—
my heart folded in upon itself gently crushed
barren, while everything holds still, shuddering
and the shadow passes over.

—1995

Theresa Morris was born in a small town in the late 50’s. It was an uneasy fit, at best. She has written poetry for much of her life. She is a student and teacher of philosophy. Most likely she’s at work in her garden, now that it’s spring.