Two poems by John Brantingham

waterfall, image from Pixabay

Moonless Night on the Allegheny River

           Only here, in the dark, can I think about my father dying. Jupiter is up there,

bright tonight because there’s no moon.

           I watch it and think of an email where I told him I loved him. He responded nine

days later, “Thank you.”

           I watch Jupiter and think of Dad, the smell of Cutty Sark.

           I watch it and think of the space debris Jupiter has collected and kept to itself.

           I watch it and think of him driving through these woods, talking about my

weakness, me too small to see over the dashboard, understanding every word he said.

                                                    *

On the Genesee River

           At Letchworth, I feel the energy of the massive falls—all the power of that water.

My heart flutters and I can feel it and understand what mortality means. What a gift it is

to know my heart is fluttering, to be able to watch the water crashing over its cliff and to

be able to know it.

           Since the diagnosis, I have been able to feel every new mood of my heart.

           Each distinct heartdance shakes me awake. I imagine that in my final moment I

will have clarity. The falls are just as loud.

           Both say important things.

_____________________________

John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate.

His work has been featured in hundreds of magazines. He has twenty-one books of poetry, memoir, and fiction including Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press) and Kitkitdizzi 

(Bamboo Dart Press). He lives in Jamestown, New York.

November 2024 issue