MAX ORR - POEMS

Max Orr is an English teacher living in Columbus, Ohio. He spends his time on his bike, climbing rocks in Kentucky, and trying to get the right texts into the hands of his students. 

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                                                 Real Life
 
of her boot sinking in mud
of the sunlight crashing
 
through water in a thin column
of the old piece of rope
 
tied to a tree by strangers
that we might keep our balance
 
she says this is Real Life
we talk of mortgages and the office
 
the glow of a spreadsheet disturbs
the quiet air around it
 
the dizzying spiral of a fern
does not
 
there are bluebells to admire here
salamanders warm themselves on rocks
 
and the skin on our backs burns
above the thick shade of trees
 
the soul knows this is important
but cannot say why
 
we stitch together words
in an attempt to clothe the naked
 
feel of the forest
they fit poorly
 
she insists that fairies live here
maybe we will never go back
 
maybe all those numbers
will sort themselves out
 
 
  
                    Reflection on a Polar Plunge
 
Let us rise from this lake
with glass on our skin.
Let the cold stiffen
our shoulders, slow them
 
like freezing ice.
Let us add our mud
to the water.
Take the edge
 
of this rock. Run
it along my foot
and yours
until red gathers
 
where we split,
spills into
the gleaming mirror.
Pass the thermos
 
from the backseat
of the car.
Pour tea
across the cuts:
 
a broken baptism
I don’t believe
in resolutions,
but it feels fresh,
 
this ritual of heat
and frost, of blood
and feeling,
of your skin,
 
firm and freckled
with a year’s
conviction. We laugh
under January sun.   
 
 
 
 
                             A Good Shirt to Sleep in
 
She asked if I wanted
my T shirt back
 
It sits in her 
drawer unworn
 
she rubs it
between fingers
 
each morning
It is soft
 
and the texture
reminds her
 
of the stuffed
clown she carried
 
everywhere when
she was a kid
 
the one whose
missing mouth
 
bothered her
so much
 
her mother needled
on a loose mouth
 
with black thread
I told her
 
to keep it
that I want
 
to remind her
of soft
 
that a crooked smile
speaks more than
blank skin
 
I told her to bury
her fingers
 
in the black
we all need
 
something to touch
and empty cloth
 
is safe.
 
 
 
 
                                              Brine
 
she tossed back the rest
of the sake and said
I’m not good at giving
half of myself
 
we sat with the remnants
of our meal between us
rolling sushi isn’t as easy
as it looks
 
and neither is pinning
a new end to a familiar ritual
old habits die hard
and we are better at sinking
 
with ship after ship
arms locked and laughing
than we are at learning
to swim
 
so we eat seafood and drink
until we can’t see
the ice bergs
we pretend we don’t
 
know what happens
after she finishes
watching me do the dishes
it is so easy to ignore
 
the scent of ocean
it easy to decide
that we are so thirsty
even saltwater will do