To the movers
paid in pizza
and sweating
in a darkening stairwell,
no moonlight sonata,
but a moon, of a kind, imposing
its shadowy grandeur and girth,
its unrelenting pull upon the earth
felt along make-do ropes, straps,
lines that quiver and work
deep into the flesh, deeper
groans, mother-of-gods, and another
concerted heave to surmount
a single step, this
slow inglorious agony
of ascension.
MIKE WHITE is the author of How to Make a Bird with Two Hands (Word Works), which was awarded the 2011 Washington Prize. His poems have appeared in magazines including Poetry, Ploughshares, The New Republic, The Threepenny Review, and FIELD. Originally from Montreal, he now lives in Salt Lake City and teaches at the University of Utah.
Latest posts by Mike White (see all)
- Piano - July 27, 2014
- Addendum to a Miracle - May 17, 2014
