"Rage Moves Us" by Edward Lee
Two poems by Michael Tyrell
Grown
I don’t know how to raise my gods
any more than they did me.
I do the same things, tell the same lies:
Be yourself, which means
you’ll never stop being me.
You’ll grow out of it. You’ll grow older.
Holding up hand-me-downs, I say
you’ll grow into it. How cold
the wind that fills the vacant sleeves–
At dark standing by the overgrowth–
a mistake to call it woods–
I go to call them in, but
why ruin their game?
Maybe nobody’s broken it to them.
They will never be grown.
Mother, father, to hide from the grown ones
remains a point of honor.
Maybe you’re just getting warmed-up.
Someone buys the woods.
I grow older.
any more than they did me.
I do the same things, tell the same lies:
Be yourself, which means
you’ll never stop being me.
You’ll grow out of it. You’ll grow older.
Holding up hand-me-downs, I say
you’ll grow into it. How cold
the wind that fills the vacant sleeves–
At dark standing by the overgrowth–
a mistake to call it woods–
I go to call them in, but
why ruin their game?
Maybe nobody’s broken it to them.
They will never be grown.
Mother, father, to hide from the grown ones
remains a point of honor.
Maybe you’re just getting warmed-up.
Someone buys the woods.
I grow older.
Quarantine Quilt
This year’s ox wears metal. It
enters 13 hours
sooner in Shanghai
for my lockdowners.
I’m sorry for my hood up on Zoom.
Please don’t read as disrespect.
What can I tell my students?
It’s freezing here, too. Any covering works.
I’m not just talking about the weather.
The ex’s ex’s gift kantha quilt, mailed
a decade ago from near the Ganges,
dislodges itself from a top shelf
when I reach for another layer
to make me warmer.
Thank you, formerly loved one,
for your charry handwritten blessing.
I’m the wood tiger, unintended recipient,
your grateful one, maybe mourner,
disposer; I see you can’t be washed again.
In water, your sewn mirrors, dainty
as fingernails, break off like early teeth
or something removed by some puritan authority
vexed by any earthbound
borrower of light.
enters 13 hours
sooner in Shanghai
for my lockdowners.
I’m sorry for my hood up on Zoom.
Please don’t read as disrespect.
What can I tell my students?
It’s freezing here, too. Any covering works.
I’m not just talking about the weather.
The ex’s ex’s gift kantha quilt, mailed
a decade ago from near the Ganges,
dislodges itself from a top shelf
when I reach for another layer
to make me warmer.
Thank you, formerly loved one,
for your charry handwritten blessing.
I’m the wood tiger, unintended recipient,
your grateful one, maybe mourner,
disposer; I see you can’t be washed again.
In water, your sewn mirrors, dainty
as fingernails, break off like early teeth
or something removed by some puritan authority
vexed by any earthbound
borrower of light.
Michael Tyrell’s poems have appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including Agni, The Best American Poetry, BOMB, Braving the Body, Columbia, the Iowa Review, The New Republic, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, and The Yale Review. With Julia Spicher Kasdorf, he edited the anthology Broken Land: Poems of Brooklyn (NYU Press). He’s published three previous books of poems: The Wanted (National Poetry Review Press); Phantom Laundry; and The Arsonist's Letters (the latter two published by Backlash Press). He teaches writing at New York University, where he is the assistant director of the International Writing Workshops.
Edward Lee is an artist and photographer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited and published widely, with many pieces in private collections. His website can be found at https://lastimagesphotography.com
Instagram: @edwardleeart
Instagram: @edwardleeart
