UNTITLED
By Doug Crawford-Parker

When I was once alone, apart
From those I knew, from those alone
Who knew me as I was yet not
The way I wished to be, I saw,
When I shut tight my eyes against
The light to see what I alone
Might see, that sight was mine entire
And fed to me such sense I sought
To share with those who wished me well.
And while they knew only what could
Be seen by sight apart, outside
Anything I might wish to let them see.

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“GRILL” (A)
By Doug Crawford-Parker

The smells that swirl up, sizzling out of the kitchen
and into the bar, sounding out sandwiches
past the TV rumbling the news, the stubbled men,
some pink, some burnt, days inside or out,
hands full from days spent moving, lifting,
grabbing, the glasses sliding small foam
along their thick bottoms as evening brings forth
its low-angled dusk.

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“GRILL” (B)
By Doug Crawford-Parker

Ask me. Ask me, without fail, where I was,
when I was, how I was, what I did when
I was where. Ceaselessly. Repeatedly. Let go
of assumptions, hold tight to desire, hope
of knowing, uncovering what once was in
darkness, occluded. Tirelessly wonder. Put
me under the lights to discover all
that I hide only from myself.

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LANGUAGE (B)
By Doug Crawford-Parker

Latin lends us words like transportation,
words which carry us across and bear
meaning. They allow us to move
across land and sea, inside our vehicles
(literally carried by them), wheeled or keeled.
They convey (com- jointly + via way) to us
what we might know, what we
could carry along, what can carry
us to each other as we transfer,
transmit, or transition from one
place or idea to another, as we
place those items in the cart
that will carry us and all
we mean to each other.

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PARABLE OF THE WAVES
By Doug Crawford-Parker

Vastness. Deep blue beyond all sight.
I curl higher, ever higher,
Lip lightening, thinning as sun
Shines through, defining an edge.
Next to me, behind me, all
Whipped by wind into waves and froth,
Uncountable, multiple, swelling, falling.

Just so,
We rejoin the ocean
Each alone, swallowed
One by one by one.
We are ocean
Still.

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CARDIAC PHRENOLOGY
By Doug Crawford-Parker

Ridges and gullies, streams
of blood circling round
that muscle in your breast –
the hematic fluid’s spring
of your sleeping body – show
the traces of glances,
words strewn like beer
bottles at the drive-in.

I caress this landscape: a hollow
sinks with the increased volume
of my voice; a lump, lower,
shows my stubborn refusals; a tiny
pit, left, grows from frustration
with my shaking head; a knoll
on its tip bulges from my
pestering talk.

To heal this topography I must
heal the whole, hold the spring
of bile which is my own
heart.