Three Poems by David M. Harris
To Donna, With Fondest Regards
Every now and then, in the big used bookstore, I turn to the title page and see the author's handwriting. I guess that's whose it is. Sometimes just a name, but sometimes an inscription, usually impersonal: "Thank you for your support." I've written those. But then there's "My darling, I will never forget that night in Omaha," and the signature reads "Bunkie," and I have a story in my hands. A mystery. Any book can be an adventure, but rare is the book with such poignancy. Is Bunkie really the author? To whom was the book inscribed? How did the book come to my hands? Separation? Death? Theft? The possibilities are limited only by my imagination, and all seem sad. Sometimes the inscription includes a name, saying "Thank you for helping to make this book possible." And now it's mine for a dollar. What grief or grievance brought it to me? If I take it home, am I complicit? Is it better or worse to leave it on the shelf? I have books signed to me by friends, books whose value to my daughter is nil. They will migrate to stores and libraries, living or dying by whom they happen to meet. |
Dead Letter Office: Gizmo
Dear Giz: I hope you knew how much we wanted you to live. That force-feeding wasn't just torture, but a campaign to convince you the world hadn't ended, that you had new humans and a reason to go on. We knew you were a good cat with bad luck, a round-faced cat out of a Japanese woodcut, serene and handsome in white and orange. We were your witness protection program, even though you could not testify about the murder you must have seen. One of your humans stabbed the other. Your family ended that day. Your old family, that is. We tried to be the new one, and you found your place, curled into a warm disk behind my knees, with your comrade Furlough and the dog, Tinker, all on the bed. Now, too soon, you lie, your loud purr silenced, with others we loved. |
The Friary, Garrison
Small dog, just darker than the snow,
porpoising over and through the drifts,
leaving a giant's footprints.
Winter birds pause in forage;
a man muddles the tracks.
Small dog, just darker than the snow,
porpoising over and through the drifts,
leaving a giant's footprints.
Winter birds pause in forage;
a man muddles the tracks.
Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City. Since then he has moved to Tennessee, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. His work has appeared in Pirene's Fountain (and in First Water, the Best of Pirene's Fountain anthology), Gargoyle, The Labletter, The Pedestal, The Basil O'Flaherty, and other places. His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2013.