Bench

by Harold Hoefle

I like an ass.  Or asses.  When they sit                                                   

the human truth comforts.  The sudden 

laugh, whispered wish; the wince and shiver.  

You, settling down, settle me.                                           

Sky and lake and hanging swings, they all 

have issues.  Me too: mostly alone,

always naked.  A body blotched by light, rain,

snow.  Skin defiled by dripping, hardening 

bird shit (that some folks call a blessing).  Add                          

every smear and spill there is.  You know.  

And my own chance at love, or even touching 

someone like me, with my long smooth slats, 

my curved iron arms?  Never.  Nor can I pine.   

I am pine. 

Solace must come from somewhere.  

There’s the grey heron, that leaning blade 

of concentration.  The heron taught me 

to wait for your weight.  Talk doesn’t matter,

the quiet’s better.  Sure, joggers pound 

near.  Though sometimes I get their butts.  A body 

wearies.  Laces come loose.  

Where was I?  This sky bores me, its endless 

blue, like the friend who won’t shut up.  Don’t think 

that colour doesn’t talk.  Wild roses, 

rustling their pinks, they’ll dance you out of yourself.                    

I’m dancing thoughts.  My arms are bending 

towards you.  All this time, you’ve listened.  

I know I’m beneath you.  

Harold Hoefle‘s debut collection of poems, The Night Chorus, was published by McGill-Queen’s University Press.  His poems have won two national awards, and have been published in Canadian and international journals.  He lives in Montreal.

Image credit: Hilma af Klint (Swedish, 1862-1944) The Large Figure Paintings, No. 5 Group 3 (1907) Artvee.com