Fata Morgana
T. J. McLemore
Here at the land’s edge, remember?
Earth pulled back its sheets for us,
riffled the pages on its broken spine.
Layers sheer as mica, rough as the surf
the ocean surges in and sighs through.
Distance hands its judgments down
in blue. Brown hair blown across a face is sweet,
sure, but this photo almost missed you. Blur
of eyes, empty mouth, you stretch into
a trick of the light, the sea wind lifting
each strand of you to the folded hills,
the landscape gathering what it can.
A Piece of Music
T. J. McLemore
It was always harder
to go downstairs, I say,
than climb up,
what with chores, fights,
cold dinners waiting below.
Wish you hadn’t moved
with your mom, he says.
Went all churchy on me,
he says, and I laugh.
Seriously, you okay?
—Yeah, just lost
my feet, he says, on the way
down. His breath too heavy on the line.
Don’t tell your mom. Or Beth.
Yeah, I say.
Then we don’t speak.
Remember, he says at last, how hard it was
to get my mom’s piano up here?
*
Five men wrestled it up all afternoon, one stair
at a time, damaging the first step and knocking rods
from the banister. They left it askew, streaked
with greasy handprints in the middle of the room.
Dad slipped each man a few bills. As they wheeled it
to the corner above the stairs, its low strings rumbled.
Dad had it tuned up for lessons. Beth and I took turns
practicing scales at the bench, our feet dangling down.
After grandma passed, he carried up a Mayflower box
filled to the brim with long paper rolls. He lifted out
one roll to show us how to grasp the eyelet gently
from the yellowing paper like peeling the backing
off a Band-Aid. He slid back the wooden door above
the keys, clicked the roll’s plastic endcaps in place. He turned
the take-up spool, feeling for the notch to hook the eyelet to.
The roll unfurled. Every time one played, I’d try
to read notes in the patterns of holes in the paper,
but it was a language I could never learn. Those weeks
before Mom discovered the affair, I’d chase Beth upstairs
all the way from the bus stop. We’d put on Chopin
and stare at the ghost-played keys; we’d set Joplin
at full speed and dance around the room. By the time
it got too hot to hold our fort on the fence line,
we found grandma’s hymn rolls, digging all the way
to the bottom of the box. But that thy blood was shed
for me, we sang together. The words came down
beside the holes, and we followed along. Crown him
the lord of love, we sang, And downward bend his burning
eye at mysteries so bright. Even when I didn’t sing,
the words still stirred like coals inside me.
*
Yeah, I say. I remember.
The movers, Beth and me,
parties for a hundred
playoff games, pinball machines,
a dozen whitetail mounts—
and god knows what else
has gone up those stairs.
I bet the carpet’s gone slick.
Man, I miss
being up there, I say,
and let’s forget about the rest.
Yeah, he says.
Yeah, I say—
and I can’t stop
seeing his fall, a Coke can
rattling down in front,
each step banging at him,
his arms flailing wild
as notes punched down a roll.
Resort Self-Portrait
T. J. McLemore
Lightning’s a white thread snapping
on a roiled sky, heaven trying
to hoist up earth. Thunder interrupts
the gloating of birds after rain. Ducks
feed in the shallows of the sprinkled
lake. Cattails rebound under the flash
of red wings.
When the sky falls
quiet at last, our scripted world
peeks from its shell: mowers return,
revving their engines, downcast
golfers suddenly hasten their lunches,
and soon the sunbathers will again
lay siege to the pool.
No necesito
nada más, I say brokenly to the maid
as she enters, Gracias, as little threads
keep breaking down the horizon,
always tugging at the same few places.
about the writer
T. J. McLemore is the author of the chapbook CIRCLE/SQUARE (Autumn House, forthcoming 2020). His poems have appeared in New England Review, Crazyhorse, 32 Poems, Adroit Journal, Willow Springs, Michigan Quarterly Review, and other journals; individual poems have been featured on Poetry Daily, selected for Best New Poets, and nominated for the Pushcart Prizes. McLemore has received awards and fellowships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, Autumn House Press, Boston University, Crab Orchard Review, and Poetry by the Sea. He serves as a poetry editor at Descant Magazine and is a doctoral student in English literature and environmental humanities at the University of Colorado Boulder.