Knute Skinner: Three Poems

In the Škocjan Caves, Divača, Slovenia

 

A drop of water.

On what’s left of my nose.

In time I’ll be a stalagmite.

 

Voices above me—

faint, then loud, then faint—

move up and down

slippery footpaths.

 

Some whisper. Some joke. Some laugh.

As I did.

Some grip the iron railings.

As I failed to do.

 

The tour guide will shut off the lights.

I’ll be left again with the flowing Reka

and the small, blind movements

of salamanders.

 

The day that voices fail

to come back again,

I’ll forget to remember myself.

 

By that time—it may be—

I will cease to care.

 

 

Old Postures

 

It was no surprise they were there

on the verandah.

At first they had kept themselves

on that stretch of weed-strewn sand

between the dock and the boathouse.

They came always at dusk,

and they stood there as if—as if—

they didn’t know I could see them.

 

Later, some days later,

they appeared at the end of the garden

between the empty fish pond

and the barrel where we once burned trash.

Staring hard, I could make them out

just beyond the apple tree,

assuming and losing shape

in the fading light.

 

And now here they are at the house,

on the other side of this locked window,

arranged in old postures,

begging, accusing.

They are standing there stock still

while I stand in the dark hall,

Bible in hand.

If I drew the blind, I could see them.

 

 

 

Ringing the Number

 

Ringing the number,

I let my finger hang in the air.

 

I think of the one at the other end

of the call I have not yet made.

 

She is stabbing a cigarette out

and pouring a second or a third cup of tea.

 

She is slipping out of her faded Chinese robe

and easing a thick leg into sudsy water.

 

She is painting her nails,

toe after toe in dark scarlet fury.

 

She is taking her pills, or else

she’s neglecting to take them.

 

And I? I am telling myself

to ring her number.

 

Knute Skinner