Two poems by MATT MORTON
Dream
Again, we are standing on the shore of an alpine lake.
There is no wind to disturb the pines, or the mountains
upside down on the surface of the water. We are waiting
for something, but I can’t be sure. From the other side
of the lake, a cardinal flies across the water toward us.
I turn and watch it come to rest among the needles
behind you. I look at you and open my mouth to speak.
Something stops me. You are staring across the water.
The sky is cloudless. It is colder than I remember.
Suddenly I realize why we’ve come here.
137 The Paris-American
Again, we are standing on the shore of an alpine lake.
There is no wind to disturb the pines, or the mountains
upside down on the surface of the water. We are waiting
for something, but I can’t be sure. From the other side
of the lake, a cardinal flies across the water toward us.
I turn and watch it come to rest among the needles
behind you. I look at you and open my mouth to speak.
Something stops me. You are staring across the water.
The sky is cloudless. It is colder than I remember.
Suddenly I realize why we’ve come here.
137 The Paris-American
Because
because there were moments
when I could stop
under a leafless tree,
exhale slowly,
and watch my breath shape itself into something
vague and indestructible, its fog
made visible precisely by the darkness
that surrounds but cannot contain it
—when I was able to wonder,
without irony, at how compelling
the evidence is, the evidence introduced into the air by a single breath,
and appreciate its argument
for my being here, its fragility a proof of something absolute,
impossible to grasp
—when I could see my breath hanging on the night,
then watch it fade,
a disappearance that required
no biography, no motive, its own resolution
—when I could be still, without resignation
or acquiescence, for once not shifting my feet
or checking the time,
and accept the being there,
even as I witnessed my own vanishing,
aware
of the darkness and the cold, which are unconditional,
and not shrink from them
138 The Paris-American
because there were moments
when I could stop
under a leafless tree,
exhale slowly,
and watch my breath shape itself into something
vague and indestructible, its fog
made visible precisely by the darkness
that surrounds but cannot contain it
—when I was able to wonder,
without irony, at how compelling
the evidence is, the evidence introduced into the air by a single breath,
and appreciate its argument
for my being here, its fragility a proof of something absolute,
impossible to grasp
—when I could see my breath hanging on the night,
then watch it fade,
a disappearance that required
no biography, no motive, its own resolution
—when I could be still, without resignation
or acquiescence, for once not shifting my feet
or checking the time,
and accept the being there,
even as I witnessed my own vanishing,
aware
of the darkness and the cold, which are unconditional,
and not shrink from them
138 The Paris-American
Matt Morton was a 2013 Finalist for a Ruth Lilly Fellowship and a 2013 Finalist in Narrative’s 30 Below Contest. His poems appear or are forthcoming in 32 Poems, Colorado Review, The Cincinnati Review, New Ohio Review, and Hayden’s Ferry Review, among others. Originally from Rockwall, Texas, he currently lives and teaches in Baltimore, where he is an Owen Scholars Fellow at the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. (www.mattmortonpoetry.com)