by Jesse Millner
Is the sighing of crickets
At dusk when the whole world is leaking light.
My music is the wheeze in the dining
Room as an old uncle gasps a little in the gloaming.
My music is the tender splash of late rain
On the meaning of cypress trees and sea oats,
The quivering world coming alive in the storm.
My music is the searching for meaning in a real map, the kind that
Crinkles, brown spattered by coffee spills late at night
On some western highway where the stars shine
Down so brightly, the red and blue lines clearly
Visible, translating vast distances into what’s possible, always
Leading us west. My music is Yuma, Arizona, so hot in the daytime that
You could fry an egg on the pavement and wash it down with a cold beer
Before cursing the terrible heat and fiddling with the window
AC unit you bought at the Sear’s in Phoenix just before
It closed down. My music is mostly the visible heat you can
See rising from the blacktop, a shimmering mirage, a what if
I lingered there, in that low air for too long and became
Almost invisible myself? My music is the chronic desire
For rain in the desert, for ice cream in the dessert, for a Savior
Who multiplies puppies instead of fishes, who turns water
Into lemonade, not wine, because God knows, we don’t
Need any more fucking drunks. My music is
The silence of 5 a.m. when I get up before dawn,
See the world shivering in its ghost clothes, the birds
Silent, the moon leaking yellow light like a deflating
Balloon. My music is my little dog’s sigh as she wonders
Why the hell we’re up so early. My music
Is the jolt of the first cup of coffee and the joy
Of the second, which will not last, of course,
So here I am, trying to get my music on the page
Before the brain fades as the morning light
Swells across the lake outside my window,
Illuminates the nearby woods, bringing
The meaning of slant pine, cabbage palm,
Sea oats, and the pond cypress greening
Now in early spring. My music
Is the fertile land of memory, where many things are dead
And buried, awaiting resurrection in the only
Way we can—with language. My music
Is the crude shaping of syllables into
Vanished worlds like my grandpa snoring
On the plastic covered couch after he’s
Had too much to drink, the crackling
Of the wood stove that warms the living room
With its high ceilings where daddy long legs
Spit grey strands that quiver a little in the small
Wind that sneaks through the windows, tiny
Architectures which are not fragile, which
Will trap the wayward fly or wasp or ant.
My music is every pasture, every tobacco field,
Every watermelon patch, every truck garden
Filled with pole beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and those
radishes I liked to eat after I’d pulled
Them up from the dark soil,
So surprising in their spicy crispiness.
My music is the longing of my little kid heart
For love, for belonging, for joy in the grim
World of a sharecropper who toiled in the fields
Of the Lord, harvesting tobacco in late summer,
Tending to the cows and chickens, fixing broken
Fences, and generally mending a world that wanted
So much to return to its former wildness.
My music is the sorrow of watching all those kingdoms—
Of tilled field, of sturdy chicken coop, of tractor and plow,
Of Sunday dinners after church when we sat around
The long kitchen table eating fried chicken, mashed potatoes,
Collard greens, then sopping up the sweet leavings
With homemade biscuits—flicker and fade into memory.
My music most of all is the joy that comes from
Visiting those places, from singing again
A lost world into meaning, reclaiming
Loved ones, the plow horse Billy Buck, the milk cow Daisy, the many
Chickens who had no names, the 1959 Model B John Deere tractor,
The whippoorwills, the hay barn, the clovered pastures, the yellow
Blooming tobacco plants, the curing barns, the flat bed truck that
Hauled the harvest to the market in Richmond. My music
Is the vibrant singing of that place, the way
It will live as long as I live, as long as I
Make my music, which is love and memories
Of perfect childhood days spent wandering
Virginia woods, looking for arrowheads,
Wading through shallow creeks full of tadpoles,
Climbing red banked hills that led to another
Glimpse of more woods unfolding greenly
To the horizon beneath blue southern skies.
My music is branch creak, water thrum, frog splash—
The sounds calling me back right now
Toward a childhood spent in a world that
Lured me down one more path to one more
Clearing where the sun glimmered
Above the pine woods—light I worshipped
Then and worship now, that I follow
Through my waking hours, each glimmer,
Each flicker, each distilled whisper
Of the mystery that speaks to us
In syllables of light, which the day
Shapes into sentences that the night
Takes away. Necessary darkness, when
We might pray to a god high above us
Or to a cypress dome we know is outside
Our window, a hundred yards away,
Its own cathedral of alligator flag
And deep water from a summer’s heavy rain.