“Out of Time” and Other Poetry by P. Leight

Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, about a block from Emily Dickinson’s house. He has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, FIELD, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.

Out of Time

I’ve had my last glass of water,
I’m listening to Time is Running Out
and Take Your Time
at the same time,
like a kind of balancing,
not worrying about anything
spoiling, as when a package is delivered to you
that isn’t even yours,
what are you going to do with it
when it doesn’t belong to you?
Who has the time?
You don’t want to wait until there isn’t any time left is something I often think about
when I have time,
snacking on Jujubes and Thin Mints,
letting my hands rest on the air—
there’s no point holding onto something
that doesn’t belong to you,
who has the time?
I mean we often think about the time we don’t have when we need to think about how we’re using the time we have
is something I’d like to give more thought to at some point
when I have time.
Not holding my breath
or waiting to take a breath,
not even licking my fingers,
like a river drinking a glass of water:
sometimes I think it’s time to go
when I’m just tired of being here.
My lovely wife reminds me
I need to rest for a while,
but I’m not sure how much time I have.

Snake in the Garden

The snake is all over the garden. Sticking out its tongue, as if it’s looking for something to lick, sliding or slithering like water making a channel. The snake knows where we are when we don’t even know where the snake is. We’ve never seen the snake close its golden eyes: sometimes we think the snake is showing us what we want to see when we’re only seeing what the snake wants to show us. When we’re confused the snake straightens us out, if we’re sad the snake makes soothing sounds, like letting off steam, the snake is the one who lets us know we need to be close to each other when nobody else is telling us what we need to be. When the snake speaks it whistles, when the snake whistles it kisses the air. Now we hear the kissing snake when we listen to ourselves.

Tragedy

It begins with a suspicious
hunger and a mysterious
absence of perspective
that keeps him from seeing what’s obvious
to everybody else, like a patient
who is conscious
but unable to move:
of course, it could have been different,
there’s actually a moment
when it appears
everything is going to work out,
then the action veers
around to its opposite,
as Aristotle put it.

I Cross the Border

when I’m sad It’s not my idea but nobody’s telling me not to I don’t know if I’m supposed to or I’m not supposed to It’s not close to me not that far away Nothing’s keeping it where it is as far as I can see on one side then it’s on the other like an argument against itself I’m letting my breath go first like the steam from a flashlight Not bringing anything with me Not leaving anything except what I don’t need Not even taking the ribbons out of my hair I’m pulling back my tongue to make room for the air When you reach for something across the border you use the other hand dropping on one side of the border what you pick up on the other like a party favor giving away on one side what you keep on the other It’s not yours on the other side it doesn’t belong to you It’s not the same not on the other side You don’t feel the same It’s not the same feeling You feel everything you don’t feel across the border When I’m sad I cross the border

When I’m Restless I Keep Going

When I look in the mirror
I’m already further away,
not even looking back,
even if I don’t need to.
Not pausing to rest:
it’s not a rest period
or a rest stop,
sometimes I think there’s somebody waiting for me
where I’m going
when I keep going,
even though nobody is.
Not sitting down and resting
or standing up and resting
as if there’s a rear-view
mirror in my back pocket:
you need to keep going to find out if it does any good,
as when you go under
and come back up,
there’s no other way.
Not dragging my feet:
it’s not a parade where you follow the people in front of you, if they’re not going anywhere it happens all the time.
When I think about stopping
honestly I just stop thinking,
pushing my hands away
and following them,
I mean if you don’t keep going you’ll never get anywhere,
is it even a trip?
Not even looking back
to see what I’m not looking at,
as if life is a lighthouse warning me away.

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