Poem of the Week: Daniel Nathan Terry

              

The 8th of May: A Vow

Upon seeing a video of a man in North Carolina firing his rifle

into a sign asking citizens to Vote Against NC Amendment One.

There are oaks that remember

what we would forget--the burn of the rope,

how a body takes on more weight

the moment it breathes its last, how

the earth below shoeless feet grows

hungry for the slaughtered. There are rooms

where paint has been rolled over

blood, where the body's salt has been

vacuumed into bags of dust, where the veneer

of a nightstand still bears the imprint

of a living hand's last message. Ghosts

of children and men and women hang

from fences, linger in the corners

of dorm rooms, of courtrooms, of churches.

This is how we deal with it around here, he said,

after emptying his gun into a plea for equality, and some people

were shocked by his quivering pride. I will try

not to think of him when I stand in a room

in DC and vow to continue to love the man

I have loved for 16 years. I will try not to remember

that 17 years ago, a friend of mine opened his door

to a cry for help from the other side, only to be robbed

then stabbed to death with his own kitchen knives

because the thief felt threatened that my friend--

while begging for his life--revealed that he was gay.

I will even try not to think of my grandfather

who cannot forgive me for loving the man

who held me steady as I purchased the dress my grandmother

was to be buried in. I will try not to think of the memory

of these oaks, of those fences, of some rooms. I will say I will

and mean carry on loving you until death. I will

think of the dorm room where we first made love,

I will think of the fence around our house

and its roses that change color in the heat. I will

think of Carolina oak who might remember

the night we kissed in the first bands of rain

from a hurricane just making landfall.

-Daniel Nathan Terry 

Used by permission.     

Daniel Nathan Terry, a former landscaper and horticulturist, is the author of three books of poetry: Waxwings (2012); Capturing the Dead, which won The 2007 Stevens Prize; and a chapbook, Days of Dark Miracles (2011). His poems and short stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in numerous publications, including Cimarron Review, The Greensboro Review, New South, Poet Lore, and Southeast Review. He serves on the advisory board of One Pause Poetry and lives in Wilmington, North Carolina with his husband, painter and printmaker, Benjamin Billingsley.

 

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