Poetry by Yev Gelman

Consider the sparrows      fly-falling     heavy from seed and     full
Consider the seed   just-planted and already a part of   the exchange that dirt makes
     with April birds
Consider April     the way he moves     swiftly but without hurry                                                                  merciless as all spring
Consider spring     (the first shapeshifter)

Consider your shape   the way you dip your finger in your mouth   to rub the paint stains
     from your black boots before you wear them out   or how you press your whole face
          together into your guitar     as if squeezing the notes from your head
               and through your fingers’ savage pull
                    letting them drip out until     the whole room is sour

Consider this day:
                         my friend sits in the middle and the two paddles
                         are crooked. The boat is tinfoil or something
                         like it. If every day was like today, I think
                         I’d be the happiest man on earth

                    See? I can live without you. There’s proof of that.

Consider me:     If I was a kind of boat, I’d be this leaking rowboat we took out
                 for the first time this season. Like me, the boat may capsize in
                 time, but I’m not ready to go back to shore, so I scoop out the
                 water until my hands are blue     I am ashamed to ask:
                                                   what kind of boats
                                                   do you like? If I was
                                                   the kind of boat that
                                                   stayed afloat without filling,
                                                   Would you sail next to me?

                         I think of one day becoming a sailor

The air is thick with pinescent and smoke from distant campfires. Last night,
My friend and I made a fire and roasted marshmallows until the sugar was brown
and molten, and our heads were light from sweetness and warmth.

          I am surrounded by such beauty. If I was a better man,
          it would be enough for me. But I can’t help being the kind of man I am:
          after the lights went off, I thought of you all night
          and woke up with your name on my eyelids.

Consider the laws of physics
               the distance     between you and me     is made of rooms
     If I was a map-maker, I would draw a route from my room to yours and
     if I was a sailor, I’d sail across the hallways of this city
          to find you                    (but it’s not as simple as that)

     Today, I am a linguist and I have a bone to pick with the phrase
                                                             to drift apart.
     You are not drifting away from me. If you were, I would dive in
     to catch you mid-stream (in this version of the story
                                              I am a sailor
                                                   and my boat can hold both of us)
     What you are is dripping. You leave behind
     a trail of wetness, and I can’t catch all of it.
     If I were to stop you     you would still spill
                                                   that’s the way water works

Consider spring, again   the way it goes and goes   without stopping to wait for us.
     If you were a month, you would be April                                and
     if i was a month, I would also be April. It’s okay for us to be alike sometimes

Consider me.     I’m heavy like the sparrows   heavier than you   though you are
                 a better sailor than me.     In some other version of the story
we are both sailors.
In this one,          the wind is picking up.