(Note-Today we conclude a three day run of Eric Huff’s poetry–technically, a three days in four run. Regardless of the schedule, we look forward to seeing his return soon–LA)

what struck me most was not how the pothos was planted in a sort of geometric pot affixed to the cerise wall on the side of the bathroom nearest the door but rather how its one long tendril worked its way back and over a tarnished, white-framed mirror and a small, caged light with the softest golden glow – warm and unexpected – to turn the corner again along exposed brick and finally rest in the white light of day filtered through a frosted courtyard facing window. seven or eight viridescent leaves just reaching out as if in holy worship crying praise be to a merciful god we will never really know or understand. I remember washing my hands and thinking in what ways am I this pothos plant, strung out in this coffee shop bathroom in the RiNo neighborhood of Denver, Colorado?

Eric Huff

(Image is of the poet)

(Note: For those of you who have enjoyed the past two days, we suggest you return for another by the same writer on Monday–The Eds.)

and when you pulled that guitar off the wall, what did you know of callousness or of evening hillsides soaked in shadows with silence buried beneath? we saw each other one time on honey earth, in neon buzz with September stars just hanging over our heads. I knew all the words just about and you did, too. blue light mornings and coffee. fractal breath. what will take root here in the body of your work? and I’m left just bluestem and duckweed, game trail and stillness. what is your name, gray sky? who is this in me again? this present moment is a cold stream poured over stone and mud. my reflection is all distorted and for a second, I am you and you are standing under the elm tree saying something I can’t hear. just take this time and space for yourself. it’s not bullshit to feel sad.

Eric Huff

Recognition

by the time it was over the rain had started in earnest. from the window I watched as the sky broke into pieces like a shattered mirror. the violence sudden and then just a moment where we recognize these empty spaces. you saw this in me, too, I think. we both were standing in the river again, just about up to our bare knees. I told you this is the only way I know how to heal myself because I didn’t want to admit to each time I’ve leaned over the guardrails just hoping to catch myself in the movement of that breath, one and then another. you were a shade tree, the name of which you didn’t know, didn’t need to know. you called spirit into that room. you held my breath as your dog pulled against its leash. with wide eyes you saw me. you saw me standing there waiting for the torrents of rain to stop, for it to ease up some.

Eric Huff

(image is of the poet)

(Nore–Today is the first day of three featuring the poetry of Eric Huff. He will appear today, tomorrow and Monday. We feel the readers will like his stuff as much as we do–The Eds.)

I want you to call me by whatever name you want. call me the river road. call me the western motel on the river road. listen to me tell you about my scrap metal dreams, about my literal scrap metal dreams and berry bramble night terrors. you have a sleeper in your eye again. start unfolding each of these paper cranes so I can get a better look at the printed patterns. more than half of these are just black and white photocopies of my face but with one or two subtle differences. look at this one, my eyes are closed. and here, the part in my hair is mirrored. the record of this day is being played back in reverse and it’s only now that I can hear your voice – like a cactus bloom at 1am this is something I have waited for. please say something lovely. say something right. breathe in all this moonshine.

Eric Huff

Rivulets

my dream? bluestem moves in rivulets.

winter cress, wild ginger, the cattail –

when I die, I want you to open all the

windows and drink cold water right from the sink.

Eric Huff

(Image is of the poet)