Two Poems

travis tate
 

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GRATITUDE

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There’s so much to be grateful for. I could name the

many ways the sun rises each morning, or the golden

droplets dripping from the sun at the start of evening.

Or, how you annoy me in some way you’re not sure of

(sorry) but when I see your face I melt, become

undone, seize the moment to tell you a joke I’ve been

saving, just for your ears. & whatever. Every poem isn’t

made to manifest emotion, something that’s dark &

grisly & hard to understand—looking into a

mysterious kind of mind shaft. Some poems are

reminders. The thing about gratitude isn’t the whole

thing, the bookshelf in your room—it’s how it’s built,

piece by piece, blessing by blessing.

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I AM YOUR SHEEP HERDER

 

for Jack Sullivan

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I look at a picture of you because I miss you. God has given me worry, 

a large stone that moves down the lining of my intestine like a shark, 

that, unfortunately, tells me I need reassurance— 

             (which my therapist calls my issues with abandonment—) 

like I am seeking a sheep in a meadow that is large. I say, 

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                          I am your sheep herder to myself in my room lit by one candle.

 

           The recontextualization of a trauma response is always, like, a good thing.

            I write on a piece of paper I need attention. And then I get attention. 

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Meaning: the things I want I can often get. For instance, 

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            if I am a sheep herder and there is a sheep missing (you), 

                        I find the sheep easily. It’s right there, looking away from me. 

                           All I have to do is get the sheep to look this way. 

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(When I worry that the sheep is hungry, the sheep will be fed. When I worry that the sheep might want to be with a different sheep herder, the sheep stays. When I worry that the sheep will think I’m making things weird, 

                                the sheep reminds me that my bedroom window is open, 

                             a delightful little breeze is blowing on my open face, 

                 And that, in turn, reminds me of the meadow we share. )

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When I worry that the sheep is no longer in love with me, the sheep reminds me that

             it has the finest wool upon its body and that if I want, I can take the wool and

             if it’s cold, maybe we can share the wool and 

             if it’s hot we can flip the wool inside out and sit on it, naked and

              the sun will be glorious 

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and when I worry that we are innately two different things, 

            the sheep will remind me that we share softness in our names.