December 14, 2023

Taylor Mali

THE SECOND PASS

The first pass along the whetting stone
creates an edge too fine to last;
the second, more blunting pass
tempers the edge into usefulness.

Together we used to hone blades
so unutterably precise
tomatoes would slice themselves
open to expose their reddest flesh.

Later, in the restaurant’s kitchen,
when the head chef needed a knife,
screaming in French, he came to her
station and used one of hers.

She told me this with pride one night,
then put her hand on my chest
and cried stainless steel tears
I could not understand.

When she jumped from the window
and they searched the apartment,
they found in the bathroom a knife,
its edge unbloodied, as sharp as a razor.

And I keep thinking of the second pass,
how it sharpens as it dulls the working edge,
how the one has a real and necessary need
of the other to do what it does.

from The Whetting Stone
2017 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Taylor Mali: “In both of the books of poetry I published after Rebecca’s death I tried to include a few poems about her. But they were always so unlike the rest of the manuscript that they couldn’t stay in. I’ve known for a decade that all my poems about Rebecca would need to be published in a collection by themselves. The Whetting Stone is that collection.” (web)

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May 14, 2022

Taylor Mali

MAGNIFIES AN OBJECT TEN TIMES

is what it clearly said
on the handle of the magnifying glass
my father received on his fifth birthday.
He took it as a warning; the birthday gift
would only work its magic ten times
and no more, becoming, after that,
just a small round window with no miracle,
toy giant’s monocle, a circle of simple glass.
 
And so he went about his days with curious thrift,
weighing how much he needed to see any part
of the world up close, observing as best he could
with his own eyes first, thinking, Do I need to see
that dead bug big? That dandelion, that blade
of grass, that wriggling moth in the spider’s web?
I can imagine most of nature’s gifts and crimes.
Best not to waste one of my ten precious times. 
 
He lost count of how many miracles he’d left,
and for weeks after half-expected the magic of the glass
to simply stop. And I have asked him to tell me 
of the thrilling moment he realized, or was told,
“ten times” in this context simply meant tenfold
and not ten instances, but he cannot remember. 
Likewise the joy that must have come with such
a limitless epiphany. But what he does recall
and says most he misses still is the way the magic
made him see the world the rest of the time,
not through the glass, but all the time
he thought that magic would not last. 
 

from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

__________

Taylor Mali: “I define spoken word as ‘poetry written first for the ear, and then for the eye,’ and that’s the kind of poetry I write. But the older I get, the more those two become the same. Still, I curate a series in New York City called Page Meets Stage (where the Pulitzer Prize meets the Poetry Slam), and those nights are magic for me.” (web)

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December 17, 2021

Taylor Mali

MAKING SENSE OF THE WORLD

My son tried three times to ask me 
for something, but never got further than
Daddy, can I … um? Can I … um? Can I … um?

So I asked him if Canayam was a new kid in his class
because there is already a Kinaya and a Nayan,
and it seemed like a pretty good guess
and an awesome Dad joke all rolled into one.

And that was the day that Canayam Buttsworth was born.
And yes, his last name is Buttsworth. And as it turns out 
he is not in my son’s class but is rather the central actor 
in the common history he is creating for himself. Not so much 
an imaginary friend as someone he can mention casually in conversation 
as having done things that my son has only ever heard about. 

For instance, you might not know this, but Canayam Buttsworth 
goes to work every day at AM/PM o’clock. Why? 
Because someone has to pay for the money. 
Canayam Buttsworth is a fireman, a policeman, 
an astronaut, and a great white shark.

Canayam Buttsworth likes blackberries, Pirate’s Booty,
and bubble baths with his little sister. Incidentally,
Canayam Buttsworth has a penis and a ji-nah.
It’s true. Because Canayam Buttsworth is five years old, 
but also six, a hundred, and the same age as Daddy,
which is like forty-twenty-sixty years old.

Canayam Buttsworth once jumped off the top 
of the Empire State Building and died 
like Abraham Lincoln of ballistic trauma.
He also died of pleurisy like Benjamin Franklin 
a long, long time ago, like forty-twenty-sixty years ago.
But now he is alive and well and living in Seattle with 
Grandma and Grandpa.
If dreams are where the mind churns and jumbles 
through the flotsam of the recent past, then 
the person who does that for my son while he is awake
is none other than Buttsworth, Canayam Buttsworth. 
And if sometimes I embellish his exploits, it’s only because 
I love saying his name, and poetry is what does that for me,
how I make sense of the world when I am in need of healing 
I cannot find elsewhere. Which reminds me that Canayam Buttsworth 
is a widower who didn’t know if he would ever love again 
or have children. Whose heart was shattered 
into forty-twenty-sixty pieces.

But somehow he has survived. 
And he wears a mask made out of his own underpants, 
and he peers out through the leg holes with x-ray eyes.
Because as you have no doubt figured out by now,
Canayam Buttsworth is a superhero. 
Did I mention that he has a penis and a ji-nah!? 
Canayam Buttsworth can fly underwater.
And he writes poems, too. And he can fix anything.
Just like you, Daddy. Just like you.

from Rattle #73, Fall 2021

__________

Taylor Mali: “In a workshop I once took with Billy Collins, he said the question you always need to ask yourself first is ‘Why should anyone care what I have to say?’ Almost 20 years later, I continue to ask myself that question every day. I don’t always get an encouraging answer, but I don’t let that stop me from writing.” (web)

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December 15, 2021

Taylor Mali

HORRIBLE AT NAMES

I used to say I was horrible at names when I first met people
until I realized I was actually just asking for forgiveness 
in advance for not even attempting to remember. Ever. 
I’d say, I’m sorry, but I’m horrible at names, as I shook each hand 
and looked each new person in the eye, but inside I’d be thinking, 
Now that I’ve warned you, I don’t even actually have to try.

I have since made myself good at names, better than I used to be.
No actually, I suspect I may now be better than most people
at remembering names. But only because I suspect most people 
have never looked at the list of their life’s priorities and simply 
promised to elevate Remembering the Names of Other People 
a few places higher than wherever it has been languishing. 

God, what a difference it makes in how a person feels
when you do them the simple honor of remembering their name.

My new motto became I will thank the bartender by name, Frances, 
every time I tip her. Until the day Frances, the regular bartender 
at my local dive, said Don’t get me wrong. I love Frances, 
but in what universe do I look anything like her? 

Nothing has ever made me feel older or more out of touch 
with my world than realizing that the most important thing 
about Frances to me was apparently where I expected her to be.

And I knew that was just plain wrong.
So I tipped her. Mallory. That was her name. 
I gave Mallory a good tip.

This morning at my local breakfast joint, I ask my waiter, 
who is awesome, if his name is Delroy. Because it’s either that
or it’s Elroy. I am not confused between the two names, no. 
Rather, there are actually two different guys who work this shift 
on different days, and one of them is named Elroy.
And because I am almost certain that this guy, my waiter today, 
is not him, I say, Your name is Delroy, right? 
I take a guess at a black man’s name because I am now better
than I used to be.
And it turns out that I am right.
But of course I’m right because one of them has dreadlocks.
Actually they both do, but Elroy has a full grown beard 
while Delroy just hasn’t shaved in a while.

It must be obvious what I’m thinking because Delroy says, 
Brother, if you had called me Elroy, I would have let it slide. 
We’re both from the Caribbean and those are common names there.
So in fact, he adds, we are basically exactly the same person.

And I knew that was just plain wrong.
So I tip him, Delroy. I give him a good tip.

from Rattle #73, Fall 2021

__________

Taylor Mali: “In a workshop I once took with Billy Collins, he said the question you always need to ask yourself first is ‘Why should anyone care what I have to say?’ Almost 20 years later, I continue to ask myself that question every day. I don’t always get an encouraging answer, but I don’t let that stop me from writing.” (web)

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December 31, 2018

Taylor Mali

THE FATHER SPEAKING THROUGH MY SON

for A.M.

My toddler son looks up at me and says,
as I have many times to him, You are my son!
His palm pressed against his chest to show
his sincerity—again, I guess, just like me.

No, you are my son, I say as I scoop him up
and lay him gently on his bed. He frowns,
and something in how he cocks his head says
he’s thinking, But that’s exactly what I said!

I give him a kiss and consider, while turning out
the light, how he might be right and his words true.
As if by some magic, at least for tonight,
the father speaking through my son is you.

from Rattle #61, Fall 2018

__________

Taylor Mali: “This poem comes from the manuscript of my forthcoming book, which is filled with poems about becoming a father relatively late in life—I was almost 50 when my son was born—as well as poems about my own dad who has been gone for almost 30 years. Occasionally my father and son appear in the same poem, as they do in this one.” (web)

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December 7, 2017

Taylor Mali

NEWS OF MY DIVORCE REMINDS ME OF YOUR DEATH

Tonight I found out that I am divorced.
My second try at marriage, and it’s through.
Relief is what I feel most, mixed with pain, of course,
remorse, and just plain grief, which makes me think of you,
you who knew such sorrow in your life
and all the ways that love can come undone,
who was the first to call yourself my wife
and battled demons daily until they won.
And though I miss you hard tonight, old friend,
that’s not the only reason that I cry.
Rather, I know a marriage now can end
and there’s no need for anyone to die.
Lover, at last, please leave me, after all these years.
You have cried enough. Leave me to these tears.

from The Whetting Stone
2017 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

[download audio]

__________

Taylor Mali: “In both of the books of poetry I published after Rebecca’s death I tried to include a few poems about her. But they were always so unlike the rest of the manuscript that they couldn’t stay in. I’ve known for a decade that all my poems about Rebecca would need to be published in a collection by themselves. The Whetting Stone is that collection.” (website)

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October 12, 2017

Taylor Mali

THE ENTIRE ACT OF SORROW

Because men murder their wives every day;
because when a woman dies and it looks
like a tragic accident, a botched burglary
or even (in fact, especially) a suicide,
it too often turns out to have been her husband,
I wonder if, when the detective called
to tell me what had happened to Rebecca
(It seems your wife has taken her own life,
those were the words he used: seems
and taken her own life, not killed herself
or committed suicide instead, and nothing
more than seems even though she was dead);
I wonder if as I began to cry the tears I never cried
when first my father and then even my mother died;
I wonder if he was secretly taping my every word,
my breathing, the entire act of sorrow, for playback
at some future date just to see if I sounded
like an innocent man.

Because later, after the services;
after the shrine of flowers and candles disappeared
as suddenly as it had bloomed on the sidewalk;
after the medical examiner made her ruling
and I was allowed to break the tape that sealed
our apartment and walk in on her last night,
the scene of the crime, untouched except for the window
from which she had jumped, now closed,
but everything else—the small and final stones
of her ritual still lying in a cross on the floor,
goldfish floating dead in the fish tank;
even as I bagged and gave away her clothes,
invited friends to take what fit if they could,
to remember; I wonder if I still—or ever—
was considered a suspect in her murder.
Because I think sometimes I should have been.

I don’t mean that I was there or opened the window for her;
gathered her screaming in my arms and let her go,
but rather by the small, sad cloud that hung
over her and which rained stinging, black,
and bitter tears on her daughter-of-the-Holocaust head;
I knew that she would one day do this,
even—and I cannot stand myself for saying so—
even hoped she would in the same outrageous,
secret way you might hope a dog (like our dog,
the one she picked out herself
because he cowered in the back of his cage
as though he did not expect to be saved
from the shelter); in the very same way
you hope to god this dog will die
before you have to put him down.

from The Whetting Stone
2017 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

[download audio]

__________

Taylor Mali: “In both of the books of poetry I published after Rebecca’s death I tried to include a few poems about her. But they were always so unlike the rest of the manuscript that they couldn’t stay in. I’ve known for a decade that all my poems about Rebecca would need to be published in a collection by themselves. The Whetting Stone is that collection.” (website)

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