The House of Murk

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Mike Finley

Published in an edition of six copies
November 10, 1994

Copyright © 1994 by Mike Finley; all rights reserved.

Girls of the Intercoastal Highway

The girls are nearly naked.
One has no suit on her behind
and to make matters worse
her friend is basting it with oil.

The girls are laughing in the sand.
It is a happy, decent laugh.
It is me that is at fault
crouching behind my sunglasses.

The girls in Minnesota are whiter.
Or maybe these girls are Minnesotans,
but from a part I don't know well
like the Arrowhead region.

The girls wriggle on towels
and laugh at the lotioned fingers.
When I return later from the hotel
with my little boy's squirt gun

The girls are gone, doubtless shamed
by my shame, slunk away
to cover themselves. When I go home
to my prairie state I shall miss

the girls and their golden skin,
back where the snow flies laterally
and behinds sit in wooden chairs,
lotionless, waiting for spring.

Poems I Meant to Write

I meant for the longest time to write
about the little tasks, about tying the shoes,
and fitting the stubby hands into gloves,
I saw my big mitts negotiating the laces
and slipping sleeve after sleeve over finger and thumb.
I should have saved the sand I dumped out
of each sneaker, enough for a beach, enough
for a castle and a moat.
I could have written about the look
on their faces sometimes, that they saw us
not as bristle sprouting oafs
who yelled and grumped and reigned stupidly
above eye level,
but shining gods, omnipotent and perfect,
strong heroes sent by a faraway star.
How when they cried in your arms
they were praying to you to make it better,
to lift the pain from their lives,
and you could.
I could have written about the tiredness
of the house, the exhaustion of the smeared tabletops, crusted with crud, sponged
pointlessly after meals,
the flakes and globs spattered on the floor
that fill the cracks in the hardwood.
Or the handles on the stroller
that were not long enough, so you walked
in a crouch, and the white plastic wheels
that turned sideways on a whim
or a pebble and skidded to a halt.
I could have remembered their bodies between us
in bed when they were babies,
the smell of them there, the cramped caution
of the dark, the wet exhalation from their noses.
I could have tallied every kick against the covers
that woke you and annoyed you,
then drew you even closer.
Why did they finally leave our bed,
our big pink comforter and the warmth
of the body familial, for starched white beds
of their own?
There was space for us all, and another night
would have cost them nothing, but they went.
I could have described the last night they woke up frightened and sauntered in barefoot
and climbed in between us.
They slept again immediately, and we tried, too.
But I knew you were thinking, off on your side,
that this was the curious moment,
and this was our life, and these little fish
cascaded from our sides,
and the skinny white flanks of our children
dove and fell beside us,
in the soft light sliding out to sea.

we want the basics
but the basics
aren't enough
meat and bread
are good but
we want more

we want there to be beauty
in our lives,
the beauty not just
of seeing but being

the moment you know
you are in love
and will feel that way again
and again
too bad we don't
feel like that
all the time
it's not possible

but how great it would be
if the way we are
naked
imperfect
ourselves
were ok

we want the warmth
and the light

of the sun
on our faces.
we want the feeling of
surprise
when things are not what
they were
then everything
needs rethinking

we want the glint of
recognition
when we see and know
the child in another
and step forward to play.

we want company and laughter
the drunken feeling
of
feeling
eyes closed

we want to beat footpaths
into our own hearts
learn who we are
and why
and understand
our stories

we want another chance
to say what we
really
all this time
really meant

we want to stop being
afraid
of the dark
we want to stop being
afraid
of the light

we want to welcome the alien
and celebrate the other
and sing the selves
we never sang

we want to blurt out the secrets
that choked us for years
so they can't

hurt us any more

we want explanations
we want to be shown
with arrows and diagrams
why why why

we want to be gods
or possibly angels
we would settle to be ourselves
at our best

we want the feeling of
winning
just once but completely
victory that
heals the scars
of a hundred beatings

we want to be forgiven
for the careless bullets
we pump into each other
as if
they were only words

we want to join hands
with those we have hurt
we want to
tell them
we're sorry

we want to stop being
bastards and bitches
and be the children
we used to be
who only wanted the good

we want to sit at the knees
of those we treasure
and hear their stories
into the night
applauding the best parts

we want the calm
of the sleeping
loving body
banked against us

more than anything we want
to be known
by the stars
known by our name
known to another
any other

by the curve of our face
by the beat of our
heart
by the knowledge
we seek
everywhere

we ache for perfection
around and inside us
one true thing to
believe in
always

give us this day
the knowledge of this
here and here
and here
and here
what we want
after all
is sensible flesh
to be glad for
the breath
that is in us
we want to see and taste
and hear and feel
and touch and know
and cry