Five Poems

Julie Murphy

At dusk, I sit outside. Trees recede,

owl calls echo the gully,

night-blooming jasmine pumps

its heady scent like a factory.

No moon. Pricks of light appear:

Bow. Belt. Sword. Orion.

In the quiet, I hear

my longing. The universe is expanding.

I know. Specks of light drift, but they appear

to drift together. You’re still dead,

but I swear I just felt your breath

on the back of my neck, the touch

too warm for wind. The chair

I sit on feels solid yet atoms

are mostly space, electrons keep me

from falling through like a swarm of bees

ballroom dancing. I name Rana Drayttoni—

red-legged frog—when his announcement

ends with a growl. Another mating season.

How long it took to find each other,

how quickly our years passed.

Even in the dark, my senses tell me one thing,

theories another. I touch my face.

It feels like this is me and the space

beyond my skin is not. Though

Buddha said otherwise. A bat flutters by.

The forest breathes its familiar

calls and cries. I try not to get caught

in my mind. Anticipating. Identifying.

I want to merge with all of it—

Red-legged frogs, bats, owls.

All I have, everything, the whole world,

without you.

Ground Termites

Silk lanterns catch light,

wings twice the length

of their pale-brown bodies, slight,

ready for reproduction. They rise

from the earth, float as if in a

fairyland. Everything bathed

in startling sunlight after rain. A breeze

in birch branches.

All dazzle.

You could call it beautiful, and

would, if they were, say,

butterflies. You’d delight

in them like the day the blue

morpho landed in the fold

of your elbow, drank

your sweat, its iridescent

edges trembling.

But knowledge can lead

to disgust. Alates swarming,

flying to the eaves. Hundreds

of them. Thousands.

The flickering light. Oh—

to become a queen!

To nest. To lay an egg

every three seconds

for fifty years. To rule

millions.

You wonder your house

still stands. Their wings

silver sails.

Their future bright.

autumn winds

persimmon leaves

in early sun 

                     flaming tongues 

drift    in erratic descent

hummingbirds rest

on the thinest twigs

ruby throats blend

                     with fury       

from bare branches   round globes hang

a murder of crows rip

into ripe flesh

lift their heads

                     a quick leap   

glossy wings row out of view

song birds follow

rapid trills punctuate

perch and peck         

                     take their fill

persimmons ripen beyond

my reach  can I too

                     be filled

                                                     I’ve been thinking

about the jazz song you wrote before you died.

Eyes closed, head swaying back and forth, listening

to Esperanza Spalding on headphones. You turned

to Esperanza again and again, then back to your own

tune. How I admired your obsession.

                                                     In your absence,

few moments feel right. To whom can I turn? I talk

to you, imagine what you would say. The sun slumps

behind the ridge and shadows grow. Some believe

in an afterlife. Some that the dead can be summoned

from the other side.

                                                                I only know

an occasional comfort. Could there be a better place?

A distant plane scratches the sky. Birds fall silent. I lean

my head on the wing of the chair, remember your shoulder.

Remember how your hand moved along the neck

of the guitar. How the room filled with sound.

Summer

 Ample days. Salt afloat on fog

all morning. In the hollow

of afternoon, the blade

of heat unsheathes.

Palpable. Flammable.

Grasses turn gold

before your eyes. Awake

at the first hint, I’m a hoarder

of light. Day’s end, the sky

throws its paint, plunging

in a kaleidoscope of color, I walk

the cliffs above Seabright Beach.

My skin glows. Strands of my hair

threaded with the sun’s last rays.

Let darkness fall softly.

Slowly, so there’s barely a gap

before the world is gone.