Chosen Spaces

This is a chosen space, this.
Not chosen by me, I’m sure.
Not consciously anyway.
But knowing I would never willingly
Refuse the choice,
I knew the consequences, as well
As I know so well the souls of those who lived here,
This red-earthen basin of a pot.
I know they called out to the one that first did all the choosing,
Just as I know how I used to call out
So hard it would burn my throat.

But then that imposing spirit called on me to make my own choices, too.
And I complied all those many yesterdays ago,
Already chose what point and purpose I desired.
That’s what I always wanted to think.
When those fixed souls in spite or good humor said
I was “just a little shit,”
I grinned, too— embarrassed to hear a word like that.
Yet something I had thought was so bad somehow sounded respectable.
It made me proud, surprisingly— full of myself, even.

Do I know better now?
That being full of me was exactly what that meant?
Full of life-enriching fecal matter perhaps.

And that’s what I gave back, and in earnest.
It merely came in the guise of such seeming ugliness
That so few could comprehend the worth.


J.H. Lee
May ’10-‘11

Meat

Extrude me through your grinder
Pat me, shape me into a nice round ball
Of tender, succulent surceance
Find where you put that cast-iron skillet
The left-over grease from the fat-back
Put it on to melt away the milky white
Start the grill, get it hot
Let the heat permeate through
Smell the acrid smoke rise from the gristle charring

Now scoop the ball and flatten it gently
With a ready spatula
Onto the hot black
See the outer skin of my ground flesh
Fry in the sizzling emollience
Now flip this browning side over
To the pink that’s holding onto raw
Two more minutes basking away
In my own collective juices of thought

Am I done? Am I ready enough for you?
Careful not to overcook me
Some rawness is fine
A rare delight to keep a little
If you ruin me
Well, I suppose you’d want to try again
On some other unsuspecting piece of meat
And I can’t blame you
Cooking meat takes genuine practice

(June 2011)

we have this certain misunderstanding
makes us beg, plead—philosophize
then we think of pleasant turns:
such trees in fine meadows
an oryx jumping out of harm's way
a piece of banded chalcedony
ornaments made from nature's toolbox

i dreamt of Faulkner's Nobel speech
about refusing to accept the decline of man
Did he ever feel guilt for lying?
Did he ever have a one true friend?

my child says we're all "fakes"
some cynical wisdom in that, i suppose
but kindness doesn't turn away
it foolishly accepts but finds reward

flights of angels

something pure about addiction
so pure in its single-mindedness
a purity that doesn't replenish
pure blackness, pure evil
a love that kills
shakes painfully to the core
chews and spits out its victims
in a garbled wad of phlegm-mix
waiting for the next fix

emphathy for a child of a lesser god

restless, i watch the seconds tick off
the moans of my son
the pain, locked-in grief
arching arms useless
unable to reach any object of curiosity
fingers without fine motor
never to pick up needle or coin
and legs my son has
carry him nowhere
don't much serve him
but to kick the air

do i cry for him?
i think, not so much anymore but
maybe i see plain truth make
pure tears swell this fragile heart
to cry for me much more
pity me more
pity me who’ll never cheer for him
taking that first step
winning that first ball game
kissing that first girlfriend
how cruel, unjust to take from me these

sure, truth is, i cry as much now
as ever before, such streaming salty
pain of purest sorrow
come to drown me
doubled with my son’s own
innocence, and mine
of truly bitter anger
anger at a god who won't explain
anger because my son's grief is mine also
grief too damned hard to bear alone
and welcome anger… ohhh,
so much easier to justify
why life is ever unfair


J.H. Lee
May 2011

Stateline, Oak Grove, KY

Stateline, Oak Grove, KY

Walking next to barbed wire separating cornfield from alfalfa,
we looked down the gravel driveway
a quarter-mile to the covered carport where Dad’s ugly beige Buick sat rusting.
Red earth caked our sneakers as we stepped off the drive to gather
a few unfortunate toads to fling through the air.
We watched as they discovered flight
then land hard on the dry tilled earth, splatter, and spill their guts.
We were boys being sadistic boys, instigators of early crimes against nature,
for which we denied committing, for which we eventually confessed.
We later talked about how our wrongdoings left scars.
But they were all forgivable, we thought, because we lived such measured lives
where the land seemed so uncompromisingly segmented,
lines people drew to mark what was theirs--
common knowledge, like how to breathe the summer heat
so as not to injure our throats.
We even knew that the corn and alfalfa weren’t for any of us to eat;
They were feed for the beef and pork the neighbors were raising.
But the sweet stink of tobacco drying in their ramshackle barns
could make the night sweeter and even more welcome than the moon and stars.
And that Indian-summer sky, silver-blue, left the frosty air silent,
and purged the guilt from our souls.

J.H. Lee, ’09

Cold Incubus

A Taste of Fuseli’s Cold Incubus

Sitting on me
This hairy, putrid-smelling demon
Eyes darting wildly
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
Suffocating me
Pressing on my chest
Like a block of granite
He sees me gasp, struggle
“You o.k.? You’re sweating…”
My hair in tangles
Sneaks around me
Coiling, then tightening
Binding me to the bed
“Honey, wake up!”
He seems genuinely concerned now, stares but
He waits a while longer and
Feels his way over me with both hands
Shakes me from a blurred daze
To half-conscious memory
“Bad dream?”
He tries to reassure me it’s fine
He seems to find it funny, though
Maybe it’s a sign of relief, maybe
“You got me worried.
Tossing like you were possessed.”

And then something about catching my breath
The air grows cold
His touch is colder
“You’re shivering. Let me warm you.”
His wry grin exposes unlatched teeth
Ready to bite down

J.H. Lee, Oct. ‘09