何日/What Day by Paisley Rekdal

On this seventh day  
                                    of the seventh month, magpies  
                                                  bridge in a cluster 
                                                  of black and white 

                                    the Sky King crosses 
                                    to meet his Queen, time tracked  
                                                  by the close-knit wheeling              
                                                  of stars. I watch. You come 

                                    to me tonight, drunk on wine  
                                    and cards, nails ridged black 
                                                  with opium 
                                                  to ease the pain 

                                    of work. We are 
                                    all men here. Any 
                                                  body can be 
                                                  a bridge, little raven, 

                                    your eyes squeezed shut 
                                    but not from pain. 
                                                  We are  
                                                  a trestle, a grade 

                                    we build together.  
                                    What matter if you say 
                                                  you’d never choose 
                                                  me were there 

                                    women willing 
                                    in this desert. I 
                                                  chose. I choose  
                                                  the memory we share  

                                    of rivers, your hair 
                                    of smoke and raw, 
                                                  wet leather. A man 
                                                  in another  

                                    man’s hand makes himself 
                                    tool or weapon, says 
                                                  the overseer, as if a man’s use 
                                                  to another is only one 

                                    of work. Pleasure 
                                    is our only chosen 
                                                  future. You 
                                                  are the home  

                                    I briefly make, the country 
                                    I can return to. Now 
                                                  the moon wheels 
                                                  its white shoulder 

                                    in the dark as you push me 
                                    to earth, slip  
                                                  my whiskered tip 
                                                  of hair into your mouth.

Happy Sunday.

George Gershwin ~ Slaughter On Tenth Avenue