Gail Tirone’s poems have appeared in Cider Press Review, Atlanta Review, Panoply, NDQ, Amsterdam Quarterly, Hawaii Pacific Review, Mediterranean Poetry, The Hong Kong Review, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and elsewhere. A Best of the Net nominee, Gail is originally from New York and now lives in Houston. She has a B.A. from Princeton University and an M.A. in English from the University of Houston. See www.gailtirone.com.
Merry-Go-Round
The old Mexican couple selling
inflatable animals near the zoo
– a red dog, a blue whale
an orange and black striped tiger
their stand perfectly positioned
at the top of the parking lot
where you can buy your kid
a piece of happiness
for five bucks.
Ice cream cones for sale
at the small cart near the flamingo pond
for 50 cents add rainbow sprinkles
and be a hero
teach your kids to lick around the cone
not letting any goodness drip.
The miniature train perambulating the park
full of parents and kids
calling and waving as its horn toots
and the elderly engineer announces the stops
the excitement of riding the train
glee on your child’s face
the chance for vicarious joy
your small epiphany
your weekly thrill.
The toddler in the navy striped sweater
who wants to feed the ducks
who even then was pushing the envelope
and somehow managed to fall in
sure, the pond’s shallow – but still
you never forget the moment.
The old French song as the carousel turns
becomes the soundtrack of Saturdays
sharing a bobbing horse with your son
who clutches the pole as you clutch him
and swing around and wave
as years fly past
and the child grows into a man.
Midnight Swim
We two
alone in the Olympic-sized pool
float under a crystal moon
gentle silver petal
suspended in fog.
We two
alone under a blue-black sky
spackled with stars
arms rippling the waters
in the shadow of the Grand Hotel
its vermilion eaves illuminated
in the blue-black night.
I commune with my son
as we float together
in the warm waters
as he once floated
in the warm liquid
of me.
To My Son
Why can’t I reach you
my son?
A voice on
the other end
of the phone.
Why can’t I get
through
the wall of distance
between us,
like cotton or fog
or an ocean I’m paddling,
desperate to cross?
Why can’t I reach you
my son?
Why can’t I cross this
seabed of emotional salt
dry, desiccated gulf,
to find the waves
we used to play in,
the sunny mornings,
the midnight communions of
shared confidences and laughter?
My son
I would cross
the driest desert,
mortgage my house,
donate a kidney
– or two
for you in a minute.
How can I reach you
my son?
Harp on a Hill
The harp on a hill,
each melody a penance
sung out to the universe,
each jangle a plea
for absolution
for some human crime
for the atrocities committed –
men felled on the battlefield,
a girl gunned down by a stray bullet,
those killed together in a gas chamber
or alone on a dark hollow night.
The harp on the hill
on a stark jagged coast
stroked by some resolute
god of wind,
strums in the breeze,
trilling for eternity
its plaintive notes,
with no one nearby to witness.
Begging forgiveness
for the species.
A webcam transmits its
solitary song
but few listen
and even fewer see.
Time Coils
Time coils
a golden rope,
a braid of human hair
tossed down by a princess.
We climb incessantly,
ascend ever hopeful as Sisyphus,
we flap, blind as Icarus,
seeking redemption,
craving absolution.
Time revolves,
a carousel
in a mythical city,
where we ride around
and around
reaching for the ring.
We journey
on a passion pilgrimage
in the names of fathers and sons
and holy ghosts,
in the names of mothers and daughters
and miracles,
for life everlasting
world without end.
Until we fall
swallowed by the salt sea.
Or learn to swim.
The Galway Review 