Because My Brother Knows Why They Call Them “County Blues,” but Won’t Tell Me Why
When my brother left, I painted our room
blue to make a more manageable sky. But
the room couldn’t mean anything besides
an offering of endless daylight for the parade
of shadows and the solitude shadows purchase
by virtue of their existence. Besides,
I only needed something collapsible, a place
for me to collect some quiet. And my thoughts
became clouds, just like in cartoons.
Where was I? Yes, the blue became the room
and prepared a silence of its own. For all the trees.
I planted them. In pots. And the birds defecting
from the old sky we left behind were welcomed
like the rest of us. Of course, the original sky
grew jealous, wouldn’t you? Ultimatums were set,
sides chosen; each faction manufactured bigger
and bigger speakers. Volume knobs turned to 10.
Then, walls of roar. I don’t care who won. Really.
I’m not a good liar. I’ve been looking for the perfect
metaphor for sadness. All along. I apologize
for nothing. I sit with my sadness, desperate
to relieve its weight. It’s not as easy as everyone
makes it seem. I tried to cover my tracks. I only
encountered a variety of distant stares, all the fog
a morning could muster, entering with its fleeting
charm. So many rainy windows, and the calls
of birds no one ever sees. This is the end
everyone hates: the main character wakes up.
Don’t worry. This is a poem. But I’m not the speaker.
The speaker is the speaker. His brother is not
my brother leaving, being called to a different sky,
another room, everything turning blue and bedlam behind him.
Copyright Credit: From An Incomplete List of Names by Michael Torres, copyright © 2020 by Michael Torres, reprinted with permission from Beacon Press, Boston, Massachusetts.
Source: Poetry (February 2021)