Meditation
I think of three men walking backwards
with leaf blowers, their steps in time
with each other, my head roaring
as the leaves blow away by a few feet.
The skyline was rosy from the sun, was dirty, clouds thinning
the farther I walked. My breath starts deep in my chest,
It leaves my body like a needle from an injection.
The hour of the morning when people walk their dogs,
the crinkle of plastic bags in hands, the clinking of ID tags
against one another, and barking, the sound of dogs sniffing
hard against the crocuses, my breath, I feel it heavy in my body
when it should be light.
The candles smell of cinnamon, I watch the flames.
I think of, I think of how I am not doing this right,
the breathing and the living part, I do not worship
what this earth has given me, I am cruel to my body, I judge others.
After buying the Buddha, a woman outside asked for money
and I told her no and yes, gave her a dollar, she said thank you,
and I asked her if it would be helpful, she said thank you. What had I wanted
to hear that I hadn’t heard? The roar of the leaf blowers.
I want to be a good person. The air thick with cinnamon.
The Buddha is teal, oxidized copper, my breath Morse code,
distress call made to this statue, its eyes
are closed, I think of nothing, my thoughts blinking.
I saw a dead cat on the sidewalk, pulled from the road but left
for someone else to discard. A demolished thrift store, the
Easter hat peeking from the rubble. The chickens I held,
the guilt I’ve felt in my life, the shame.
A woman at a piano plays a single deep note to its very end.
She is my mother. Exhale. Like strychnine
from my body. She turns, and smiles at me, toothless.
Her gums as red as candles, hollowed from the flames.
| Shevaun Brannigan |
|
levelheaded: Meditation
Shevaun Brannigan’s “Meditation” melds observation and introspection. Along with the title, the religiously significant number three in the poem’s first line sets expectations for the poem’s imagery. While the speaker’s relationship to what she sees is not always clearly defined, a sense that there is a significant connection between the outside world and the speaker’s psyche pervades the work. The leaf blowers take “steps in time” then the speaker’s head is “roaring.”
In stanza two, the sun and clouds are literally colored and shaped by the speaker’s proximity to them. Adding to the clamor in the speaker’s brain are “the crinkle of plastic bag in hands, the clinking of ID tags / against one another, and barking, the sound of dogs sniffing.” Sniffing dogs leads the speaker to an awareness of his own breath. Again, observation bears introspection, and what the speaker recognizes as a result is breath that feels “heavy in my body / when it should be light.”
The tension expressed in these lines reflects the poem’s tone. Pleasantries fill the world (cinnamon-scented candles, exchanges with store owners, a little Buddah statue). And yet, for the speaker, something still seems to be missing. Hence the studying of the flame, the unanswered question, the desire for the Buddah in the first place and the “distress call made to [the] statue.” As a result, “The roar of the leaf blowers” is still heard.
Perhaps that roar is born of loss, as manifested by the “dead cat (…) left / for someone else to discard,” by the “demolished thrift store,” by “The chickens [the speaker] held,” or by the toothless mother who appears in a poisoned dream. The roar certainly could also be a product of “the guilt” and “the shame” the speaker has felt. Or perhaps it is all these things and more combining to create a hollow ever aching to be filled.
– The Editors
