Previous Issue: Fall/Winter 2009

[When you pour your face into the cup]  
Nathan McClain

When you pour your face into the cup
of your hands that way,

I remember being a boy and taking
baths by myself a few days

after my father left. I don’t remember
for my mother, who sat

on the toilet with her knees clapped,
face puddled in her hands (the way yours is now),

I remember for the toy sailboat
buoyed in the middle of what it knows

as an ocean on a day with no wind,
where the sailor of that boat can clearly see

the island of my knee, but doesn’t float,
looking for my mouth, for a whisper

into the ear of his sail,
and when I don't speak, he curses

my mouth like a god who has gone
silent, a god who has said too much.

 

Nathan McClain's poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Tar River Poetry, Poet Lore, New Zoo Poetry Review, Anti- and Barn Owl Review. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he currently lives and works in Los Angeles.