Sample Poems by Mike Smith
Imaginary Photograph
I.
I’m the one who took the dare (Don’t you remember?)
testing the electric fence that sent us,
all morning, sudden angles of the sun.
Not even the eye of the camera escaped them.
That’s you, there, in the center, in front
of the fence, beside the vine
working its roundabout way up the post.
(Every year they cut it back and every year it grows.)
Ignore,
if you will, the table;
it’s only there
for scale.
I like to think you saw it first—the mountain —
around a curve, above the tree line.
You saw it, and it hit you all at once,
bald head of rock pulled
(as if by a giant spade, you’d said)
from the hillside, put neatly on top.
Perhaps you had family nearby. Probably,
you were headed somewhere else.
Your father had been driving for hours
and was more than ready for a break.
(It was the wind, of course, not a spade.)
II.
Your name was everywhere a few months back.
You’d won some award, I think,
or survived a terrible fall.
I saw your face all over the news.
Me? I moved around a lot (around, not away).
I come back once in a while.
That’s you, there, in the center.
The table’s gone now, but the rock
is the same. The fence still works.
The vine is wisteria, I think.
Tips for a Traveler in the Land of Giants
Not daylight, but a single bulb
hanging above, its brightness
a finger in the window frame’s
smallest crevice…
You wake there to singing, lovers
bathing in a tub so large you squint
to see its far side. Start to step,
and everything
is soaked and slippery. Remember,
size counts, and you’ve yet to learn
what hazards even the smallest room
can hold. So when
they get to their feet, avert your eyes,
or thinking your wildest fantasy’s
within your reach, and blinded by light
reflecting off their skin,
you’ll tumble right over the sill.
(Once alone, vault the sink
with a toothbrush to reach the soap dish
and get a drink.)
Do not explore. That glistening razor,
sloppily perched, is always a danger,
and their falling towels may seem
a pleasant way
to go, but you can’t think like that.
In fact, better not think
at all; it will only lengthen
the loneliness.
Slink, instead, between the slats of the vent
behind the sphinx-toilet. The trip
is hours long, but you’re safe there.
The weather’s temperate,
and they don’t have pets. So get some sleep,
and in order not to feel the passing
pace of every fugitive
moment, tell yourself
that though morning is miles above you
where you are, it is happening
for someone,
somewhere.