Author of the Month: Rob Plath

things i might’ve missed if i didn’t have insomnia this week 

i might’ve missed placing my hand on my whimpering cat & waking her from a bad dream & her blinking at me three times & curling up closer to my leg 

i might’ve missed re-reading these lines from  the rubaiyat of omar khayyám: “i need a jug of wine & a book of poetry / half a loaf for a bite to eat / then you & i, seated in a deserted spot / will have more wealth than a sultan’s realm...” 

i might’ve missed stubbing my toe & suddenly thinking of you coming to visit me after midnight & kissing me & kneeling to untie my combat boots, laughing how i’d sleep in them if it wasn’t for you

i might’ve missed the rapture of that chocolate chip cookie in the dark kitchen

i might’ve missed getting nostalgic & watching clips of the johnny carson show & laughing at johnny laugh at robin williams’ frenetic madness 

i might’ve missed the moonlight projecting the maple boughs across the walls like bare nerve cell shadow puppets 

i might’ve missed having gratitude for how the night unsharpens the edges of things & rounds out the world 

i might’ve missed the simple excitement anticipating sourdough toast & a cup of earl grey in the morning 

i might’ve missed the beating of my heart, lonely as it may be, & the ease w/ which it opened & closed at such an hour

***

inside-out 

did you ever convince yrself 

someone long gone 

waits for you to come home?

so the day is not a bucket of lead 

& yr knees don’t buckle? 

did you ever convince yrself 

somebody long gone 

waits for you? 

so when you get into yr car 

the tar isn’t just one long 

stretch of terror? 

the moon not some 

mocking lidless eye? 

did you ever convince yrself 

someone long gone 

waits for you at home? 

someone sitting w/ knees 

sweetly pulled up 

in yr favorite chair 

smiling in the warm 

yellow glow of a lamp? 

fresh gardenias in water 

on the table? 

did you ever in yr mind 

lift the body of a ghost up over 

its own shape like a dress 

& pull it back down inside-out 

so it’s flesh & bone again 

b/c you want to race home? 

even if it’s just one more time? 

did you ever stoop 

to such foolishness? 

such utterly desperate measures

just so you could race home?

***

eating alone in my own little blue kitchen 

(for my mother) 

you always seemed to be chopping garlic 

or onions on yr long-gone mother’s wooden paddle-shaped bread board in yr yellow kitchen 

today i wonder as i prepare red lentil soup 

how much grief was in yr own grip 

in the pressure of yr fingertips against palm-flesh 

in the heart-strike in the ball of yr thumb pressing against the handle of the knife 

how much absence played a role in the rise

& fall of the blade 

how much ghosts really feed those who are lucky enough to be seated at the table 

to feast & be present

***

haiku from hell 

my damn heart chakra 

is a .38 slug hole 

full of bloody pus

***

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BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

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Setu October 2021