Emotional Intelligence
My grammar, ‘tis of thee. Sweet
simultaneity when water came down
the hillside in a pipe and a local
Cineplex of Oedipus
armegeddoned us into a past
no future could agree on. Nation
was another thing to notice,
how shirts and skins, ironies
and their opposite eyed
each other before the big game.
Sneak up, affections. Be covert
in the open. If I sing, I believe
in wire taps bootless on be-
citizened faces, that phat, that
sick: help. We’ve given up
the romance of weather,
although I once felt so much
for a man who wore oven mitts
in the snow. Land where my fathers
pilgrimmed all we can depend
on, this freedom majestic in
the jest that will what—blah, op-ed
and blather us over, excelsis
deo zapping rust from our names.
The word “to” is understood.
And it’s thy placey memories
I love, darling tongue of my tongue,
unique as any finger print
in groove and grubbiness. Always
someone becomes the subject
re-collecting these minutes
meandering like so many sheep
that run before our steps,
and the red or blue X’s on their hinds
say who owns them as they go
upslope, in rain, over the stubby grass.
Copyright Credit: Pimone Triplett, "Emotional Intelligence " from Supply Chain. Copyright © 2017 by Pimone Triplett. Reprinted by permission of University of Iowa Press.