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The sky in Nebraska, says poet James Cihlar, is
“a white wall... pulsing like a ghost” or “a blue so near//you can sink your hand in/a tarp you can
reach up and touch.” Yes. Under such a sky, it is sometimes difficult to find yourself. You have to go away to learn
your true identity. The poems of Undoing (Little Pear Press, 2008)
are poems of discovery, of challenges met, of simple pleasures and domestic bliss.
Both meditative and lyric, these poems are rich with the music of a life well lived.
The title poem of the collection was featured on Verse Daily for September 19, 2008:
Undoing
Unfamiliar with the logic of the physical world,
As a kid I did not understand repair.
My mother warned,
If you break that lamp
We can't replace it, but I couldn't believe her.
The world can't be that stingy,
Not the same world of tulips erupting from bulbs,
Moths emerging from cocoons, smooth upholstery
Cradling my cheek in the backseat of my father's Chevy
Driving back roads to supper clubs, cornflake-crusted
Fried chicken, doughy dinner rolls, so much food
I had to push the plate away. There must be
A scientific process by which something broken
Can be restored entirely, the mistake undone, nothing lost.
Today a commercial tells me that a fire in one room
Can damage a whole house. A woman drapes a shawl
Over a space heater and it announces flames.
I have littered the past year with anxiety,
And it is spilling over into the rest of the house.
Taking it on, my cat breaks a figurine on the vanity.
Make it like it never happened, the commercial promises.
Even if I glued the shards together, I would comprehend
The fissures webbing the porcelain, the pressure points of weakness,
Which is my undoing.
Having broken many things
In my life, I have grown to accept
We could undo anything if only we could forget.
Copyright © James Cihlar, 2008
James Cihlar's Web Page
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