Trespass (5 page)

       
survive and want

       
him dead.

 

II

       
Did you see

       
when my brother

       
reached over

       
and my father

       
fell into him, hair

       
silver as winter,

       
his head

       
tucking under?

       
Did you see

       
the small quake

       
of his back,

       
my father's tall

       
body bend,

       
a peony

       
burst open,

       
top-heavy?

 

III

       
My father's niece crosses to me

       
I kneel to her newborn

       
I think we're all smiling.

       
We're moving

       
to Florham Park
, she says.

       
Florham. That word,

       
floral

       
and florescence, lawns

       
of snow and spring,      a space

       
opening

       
blacktop becomes

       
field, no

       
manholes of City

       
of Linden,       I watch

       
a burst seed drift

       
and land

       
in the bed

       
of her brunette curl, I almost

       
brush it away.

N
EVER

       
Did it stop with me?

       
Yes
,

       
I knew

       
it was wrong
.

       
She adjusts the strap

       
to her pocketbook.

       
Never

       
to your children?

M
EMORY

       
My brothers and I hunted

       
night crawlers in summer

       
folded back the ground

       
with large dinner spoons the metal

       
necks bent swans we sunk

       
our cupped hands below crinolines

       
of white roots found

       
quick rubbery coils ruby

       
under light dropped each

       
into an empty Sanka can

       
their wet bodies sliding

       
away from cold tin

       
my father says he forgot about

       
the other two girls.

       
At dawn the rain fills in

       
the pocks with mud.

M
ARY AND
B
OBBY

       
My father writes

       
to his mother who died

       
when he was four,

       
I moved out of Linden

       
and I like the quiet of this new

       
town. I go to daily Mass
.

       
You would love Carol
.

       
He asks about the scar

       
large as a map running

       
down over his elbow,

       
Did you scream

       
when you pulled my arm

       
from between the cylinders

       
of the clothes wringer?

       
He pauses

       
to let her respond

       
like prayer, he waits

       
to hear something

       
come back,

       
Dear Bobby,

       
Keep writing

       
to me. Go teach

       
good things

       
to those boys
.

       
You were

       
only sixteen
.

       
I should have

       
been there
.

S
T
. G
ERTRUDE'S

       
iron gates scatter low-flying gulls

            
her brother impales an empty can

       
on a blunt spear-tip     twilight

       
blanches stones uniformly

            
some lindens effloresce

            
her brothers stumble to Pop's

       
grave     it has no new

       
bouquets     onion

       
grass shoots up     there's beer

       
on their mouths     necks

       
sunburned St. Gertrude's holds

       
my dead family     Pop

       
took naps with her     liked

       
to lay his body on her

            
her brothers sledge

       
Pop's stone     drunken swings lop

       
off his name     my cousins

       
wipe their palms     they swing

       
at the iron     climb through

       
bent bars     the cemetery

       
calls my father     he will buy

       
a new stone for Pop

            
a custodian hammers back

       
the bars     rain hits

            
limestone     layers delaminate

       
letters lose their serifs     when

       
it's time we'll sink

       
no stone     when he

       
dies we'll set

       
my father to ash

F
RESHMAN
T
HEOLOGY

       
newsprint curls out

       
from corkboard my father opens

       
a few awning windows

       
in the empty classroom

       
he tunes the Four Seasons

       
falsettos tinny as school band brass

       
his teenage years rush

       
over him he hits

       
the radio off

       
he will hand out

       
notebooks for them

       
to journal feelings

       
he curates young men

       
and thinks this atonement

T
RESPASS

       
it's winter your hairs touch

       
my skin     touch my side

       
touch the immediate     the bright

       
burn of it     tread the emptiness

       
that touches this house     walls

       
touched with dawn     the late

       
inside lamp touches windows

       
breath touches glass     fog touches clear

       
touch a name     let snow touch cheekbone     it drifts

       
against fence     touch the latch

       
touch the gate     the knob     its cool

       
metal     the hand blooms once

       
inside     hand that slides open

       
that turns locks     touch open     touch

       
young     touch her hair     summer

       
touches attic dormers     heat pushes

       
out a fan     so cool in the cellar     the mold

       
touches stone     sewage rushes in pipes

       
sounds of the house touch you     touch the half

       
window     the way out     the awning

       
hinge     touch the pane touched by slim shoots

       
touch trim of sky     can you touch

       
her voice     her full life     her adultness

       
and you touch her for six months     touch her

       
around the house     now touch the great

       
span and for once let her touch a man

       
let her touch her child     let her

       
touch herself     her own tall body

N
EAR

       
as the slow heat leaks

       
from old panes, when night

       
makes its shapes, the slatted closet

       
door strange ribs, when my soft

       
moon drifts into your hard

       
pull, our bed holds zephyr

       
of breath, gather me

       
as my father would, in the immense

       
dark I dock my spine

       
to you

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful acknowledgment is made to
The Cortland Review
in which “Cherry Tree” appeared and to Jeffrey Berg for including “Winter Burial” on
jdbrecords
.

I would like to thank David McLoghlin, Rachel Zucker, Yusef Komunyakaa, and Matthew Rohrer for taking in this book, at various stages, and offering encouragement and advice. I am grateful to Alexandra Geis for being a creative compass and a compassionate guide. Thank you to Stephanie Stio at the National Poetry Series, and for his expert stewardship, I am very thankful for David Watson at HarperCollins Publishers.

“A Body Glows Bronze” is after the sculpture
The Age of Bronze (L'Âge d'airain)
by Auguste Rodin, originally titled
The Vanquished (Le Vaincu)
. The model for this work was a twenty-two-year-old Belgian soldier named Auguste Ney.

“Elegy” is dedicated to Tyler Clementi.

“O magnum mysterium” is part of the Latin text of a Christmas choral composition.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Photo by Noah Barker

THOMAS DOOLEY
was born and raised in the Somerset Hills of New Jersey and lives in New York. He is the founder and artistic director of Emotive Fruition, a theatre collective of actors and poets. He holds a Master of Fine Arts from New York University and works in the field of narrative medicine.