TWO POEMS FOR OTHELLO
1.
My son asks me if I have ever been black.
Asks me if I have ever been homeless. Asks me if I have ever
seen god’s face. Was it surrounded by butterflies?
Was it ugly? Were the teeth made of gold or silver?
My son asks me If I have ever been to Los Angeles.
Asks me if it was made of silver. If it was built by angels.
Asks me if angels have teeth. Asks me if they whisper to me
at night. If they smash mirrors at night. If they can
have babies at night. My son asks me if angels
are black. Asks me if I have ever dug a grave. If I dug it
with a silver spoon. Asks me if I have ever been poisoned.
If he has ever been poisoned. If he can have babies.
Asks me who drives by our house each night
in a loud car, its headlights flooding his room.
My son asks me if he can eat roses.
My son asks me if I would eat roses for him.
Asks me if I will ever leave him. Asks me about his
biological mother. Is she poisoned? Is she alive? Does she
live inside a car? Does she walk around with a revolver
in her suitcase. Is she lonely? Is she safe? Is she angry?
My son asks me about my heart. Does it ever break?
Does it ever drown in fury? Does it ever want to
destroy itself? Asks me if his biological mother is furious.
Does she watch TV? Does it burn her eyes? Does she live
on blood? Will she consume me with her fury?
Is she black? My son asks me if I have been to the desert.
Was it very warm? Will I ever go there? Will my biological
mother be there? Will she consume me?
Will she bring a revolver in her suitcase? Will you drive
her in car? My sons asks me if I have ever ridden
on a horse? Was I scared? Was the horse?
My son asks me if I have ever stolen money from kings.
Asks me if I have ever hit a television screen with
a hammer. Was it made of silver or gold?
Asks me why I have a silver ring on my finger.
Asks me what a spine is. Asks me about his dreams.
Who the person walking through the desert?
Why is she surrounded by birds? Do crows live
in the desert? My son asks me about horses. What is a
stampede, he asks. What kind of teeth do they have?
How do they sleep? Are their shadows made of gold?
Do their branches break if you step on them?
My son asks if the snow can cover up the night. Asks me
if horses can survive in snow. Asks me about his breastcage.
Asks me about his spine. Asks me about the hooves
of horses. Asks me about photographs of horses.
Biological horses. Asks me about stampedes. Asks me
about horses. Asks me about the slaughter of cattle.
Asks me if I will ever leave him.
Asks me about horses. Asks me when I will die.
When will you die? Will you die in a car? Will you die
in a hotel room? Will you be alone? Will I give him
my money? Will I give him my little black book of poems.
2.
You name is already in it. You already own it.
You are already biological in it. Your spine is in it.
Your mother is biological in it. If I die in the desert
you can put my spine in it. If I die in a car accident
I will give you horses. Hundreds of horses. Biological
horses. Horses that stampede through the desert
for you. Horses that are angels in the desert
for you. Horses that are biological on television
for you. Horses that are slaughtered with silver
hammers for you. Horses that are mirrors
in Los Angeles for you. Horses that are dripping
poison from their spines for you. Horses that are poisonous
for you. Horses that are cars for you. Horse that are angels
made of shattered mirrors for you. For you will travel
into the biology of angels. You will hear them
whisper about the car that floods your bedroom
with light every night. The loud car. The biological
car. When I die I will come back as a biological
horse for you. I will come back with my spine for you.
I will come back as a mother. I will come back
with arms made of gold and a spine made of silver.
I will steal from kings. I will memorize your names.
I will bury your horses in roses. I will bury you mother
in snow. I will wake up every night and flood
your room with light. With darkness. With crows.
With crows I will sing for you about silver.
I will sing for you about gold. I will rub out the light.
I will carry a pistol in my suitcase. I will walk
around town in the snow. I will bury the kings.
I will steal their horses for you. But we will never
find your biological mother. We will be biological
in the desert. We will be mothers in the streets.
But will your biological mother ever find us?
Will she carry a gun in her suitcase? Will she
be riding a silver horse? Will she be surrounded
by crows? Will she be enveloped in angels?
Will we see her on TV when our eyes burn?
Will we see her in ambulances that flood
your room with lights and noise? Will she steal
my little black book of poems? Will the poems
be biological? Will the book be made of horses?
Will we bury her in roses? Will she bury us
in snow? Will the poems be furious? Will your
mother be black? Will she be furious? Will you
be scared? Will she whisper my poems for you?
Johannes Göransson is the author of ten books of poetry and criticism – including The New Quarantine (2023) and Summer (2022) – and is the translator of several books of poetry, including works by Aase Berg, Eva Kristina Olsson, Ann Jäderlund, Helena Boberg and Kim Yideum. His poems, translations and critical writings have appeared in a wide array of journals in the US and broad, including Fence, Lana Turner, Poetry Magazine, Spoon River Review, Modern Poetry in Translation (UK), Kritiker (Denmark) and Lyrikvännen (Sweden). His is a professor in the English Department at the University of Notre Dame and – together with Joyelle McSweeney, Paul Cunningham and Katherine Hedeen – edits Action Books.