Ralph Eugene Meatyard’s “Untitled” photograph from 1961, one of many disarmingly eerie images the self-described “amateur” photographer made in the early 1960s, often involving grotesque masks.
THERE IS HARDLY ANY LIGHT
after “Untitled,” 1961, by Ralph Eugene Meatyard
Blanket of mud. Blanket of rot, of always,
Of cloying. Always, a soaked blanket
Knotted around the face. Shallows ruffled
By Blackgum, spiderwillows—
Their knobbed roots tangled beneath the mucked
Skim, leaf-knotted—slick as oysters
Jellied in the throat. Above me: clucking
Tongues in the hot wind, night—
Its forever reaching purple & dark, thick
With the music of hearts
Hopscotching up the throats of the living.
But this right here, this mire,
Is the mist that rolls in & erases the day,
A haze no one can ever leave—
It is the almost unbearable everything seen
By the sightless, the lightless pits that used
To cradle eyes. Anything is possible in this
In-between glow, so let me
Assure you: The world is not a great golden
Bell, humming—it is a hand-
Dug hollowing out of the self, a sooner or
Later kettle inside that echoes
With your voice. Repeating, endless: how long
Have I been fooling around this
Place? Apparitions of family, loved ones
Come to haunt the deep
Flesh & look again—those aren’t really
Your hands. Before you came to
Be, they slipped on glove-like, snug.
Always, this is the way it is:
The day folds itself away. Dusk wraps swaths,
Sheets of dirt over me. Tomorrow
My face might be black pearled with tadpoles,
shorn into whipped-away sinew.
Tomorrow, my face just might be yours.
But always, no matter what tears, what peels
Away & is seen beneath, we will be
Here. Always. Always. Listen to my
Wayward girls, the rushed whisper that leaks
From their frozen open mouths, the fire-
Pits of their eyes. Always the water is so cold, almost
Electric. Always, it leaches through every frigid
Furrow & split in their bloodless heads. This is
The way they sing, always: about the skin—
Its stitch by stitch it unraveling—tallying
The gone-seconds, that metronome
Of scars. Always, about the gift each morning brings—
Circles of cat bones that inexplicably
Appear, loosely planted in the shoreline’s dawn
Dirt; the tiny arks of curled leaves—
Each cribbing the husk of a dead grackle,
Their slow glide over the water & how each
Float looks ablaze, a blinding hole punched through
The morning air. Always, they sing
About this wellbeing—beautiful hailstorms in the space
Where their chests used to be, overmuch
Downpours that come with the knowing that the cold
Has no end. Always, that there is so much:
Kudzu & moonweed, creeper & cypress—so very
Much, that there’s no room to wake up,
Ever. No place to go. Always. Forever. That all this
Aliveness hums & moans like a bonfire
In the center of the head. Always. Always, there is
A deep, polishing heat that allows us
To name whatever we drop into our bottomless mouths.
Alex Lemon’s fourth poetry collection, The Wish Book, was released in February from Milkweed Editions. As in his other volumes, his candor and exuberance, particularly about the birth of his son, resonate along buzzing wires of pop-culture energy.