Jeff Whitney

Unconditional Endorsement of the High Five

Besides the middle finger, 
embracing in an orchard of almonds
at the start of a war, 
the countdown from ten in the dark of a rocket ship,
which gesture has been more integral to our relations? 
And who did it
first? And that first receiver, what was their deal? 
Had they, wanting to praise
the luck of some moment, extended a hand 
therefore inviting the other
to do a thing never until then done? 
It must have felt like dancing between comets
at the end of the world. And what happened, 
when it demanded more? Down low,
up high, too slow? 
Or when a maw opened in the blue air and another human
stepped behind as though through a curtain of silk, 
and was gone? The practical
applications of hands become so limited,
but the infinite reproducibility of love
is something I’d go to war 
or raise a hand for. I’d forego the enchanting garden
and chocolate milkshakes 
for one more sweet soul-slapper of a heartfelt
five, offered by a friend of decades or a stranger. 
I’d go hopping over gravestones
meeting the up-thrusted hardened hands of the dead. 
And I will say right on
or yessir! 
A common prayer like asking for rain
in the deep part of summer, 
like climbing a mountain to meet my bride.
Oh cymbal slapping the air 
out of this poem, oh hand lifted high!
From far enough away anything
can seem like danger,
and laughter can look like dying, 
and this hand
I extend to you now asks only one thing in return.

Unconditional Endorsement of Sweeping

My father was a god because he was huge and silent, 
because he could split a log and pour concrete and name every species 
of bird, snake, and lizard in the yard. Because, once, he pressed a thumb 
onto the small pillow of an owl’s chest and started it humming.
And though he never said I love you to me or my brother, he did 
throw a miniature glass Christmas tree at the wall one December 
when the dog reared and bit a hole in my cheek. It shattered 
spreading a galaxy of Christmas cheer across the kitchen floor
as my father cornered the dog, who released a small piddle of fear, 
bringing its tail down in a sign of pittance and defeat.
Later, a nice woman stitched half my face into a smile 
while dad stayed home with a broom to make our life, 
if not clean, just the way it’d been. The dog curled into a comma
asleep in his bed. No blood on his teeth. As though pain 
had never happened. For years he would love like this: sweeping 
away what threatened to enter us like a fine finger of smoke 
and claw our innards to ribbons, and blacken the forest of trees
still growing within. Every placid stroke of the bristles 
collecting the ruined days and calming our life 
the way a wild animal who has been spooked by its shadow 
is touched, softly, along the knuckles of its neck. A quiet 
love which keeps the plot of the novel of our lives moving 
forward, while we jangle together as trinkets on the wrist of 
a god who is dancing, and in the woods not far off another
keeps burying and unburying some ancient, bright-red secret.

Thank You for Calling This Poem, We Are Currently Experiencing Higher Than Expected Volume At This Time, Please Stay On the Line, A Representative Will be With You Shortly

At this poem, we’re working hard everyday to make the stone
stonier. We’ve taken out that stanza about teens in a bowling alley
sipping soda while death hovers above them like a sneeze. Thank you
for your importance. Premium Plus members receive a lifetime of birds
divebombing their enemy. Modest members can now enjoy sunsets
over one of forty two countries the author can name off hand.
Have plans for the new year? Try one of many lines this poem cut
and brought back. Consider, for instance, this one about boogers
being like nuclear codes—something to keep to oneself. Try this
procession of pilgrims weeping at the foot of a god almost too heavy
to carry. For those callers who wonder whether this is even a poem
please understand how often the head is surprised to find its own hands
gripping the hilt of a blooded blade. At this poem, we’ve cut loose all balloons,
flooded the village, and are at work connecting the open eye of a sniper
to a civilian’s laughing mouth. We will see this through. We have you,
valued such-and-so, in mind. Very soon one of our representatives will
be with you. In the meantime, please scream into this void for as long as breath.
Congratulations, you have done it. Please stay on the line. Please keep on
keeping on. Ask yourself what you are doing here and wait for The Gargoyle
Of Future Misery, or The Gargoyle of Future Happiness or The Gargoyle of
Pretty OK. If you have left your home town, you might go back to find a field
is missing. You may start to wonder if it was ever there at all. Good news!
Premium members can now become part of our Elite Circle, you and me
holding hands. If you prefer, we can chant. You can say: wasn’t god once defeated
by a grape? This poem wouldn’t know where to find such a grape.