Hadara Bar-Nadav
Two Poems

The House Is a Difficult Text 


                       —for Jenny Clyde 

Line breaks 

trace the windows. 


            Blankness follows.  
            More moments  
            of blank. 


Show them   

what burned:  


                          every thing.  


The house, her red hair,  
the roots.   


This is the difficult 



            who fell asleep  

            on the flower-printed couch, 


            whose cigarette wore 

            a bright coral ring? 

               Her lips, her slow 
               breath, her dream. 

Newspapers mounded 
around her, 

a paper maze  
three-feet high, 

           and her body  
           at the hot center,                                                                                                                                                                                             
            her body as kindling, 

She died inside 
a dying house 
returning itself  
to dust. 
The difficult part 
is two deaths: 


a palpable  



                        a field.  


A Coffin of Clouds 

The dead make a kite 
the size of god— 
Four kinds of god: feather, 
blanket, cotton, sheet.  
The clouds offer 
their sums, their minuses. 
Our vast wreckage— 
            ghost opal,  
            blighted egg, 
            a blood sea.  
Entire eyefulls  
of endings. 
Weren’t we at last 
             delusional, more hull  
             than whole.  
My lack of compass,  
I throw out  
a shallow noun, 
             anemic invectives. 
Fuck you, sky, 
you liar, 

where a god has gone 
to die. 
Figment, idea,  
nothing here— 
           the great blankery  
           of us 
           torched by the sun’s fire.