In the Early Days / Turned & Turning
by Mitchell Nobis
In the Early Days
The sirens sang all day.
They filled the sky where
airplanes used to be.
The moon cycled through
while Venus hung bright
in the western sky. The early
numbers flashed on screens,
meaning anything or nothing.
Numbers.
The trees budded out, red
& bulging. My wife read
the boys a book about trees.
They ran out to the yard with
a Fisher-Price stethoscope to
listen to water rush up under
the bark like water through the
pipes, which, of course, it was.
We heard the birds, the kids
unable to sleep from naked
chirps no longer drowned
out by motorcycles on
the highway a half mile
from here. Horny makes
noise either way, but I
prefer these birds’ songs.
I climbed through the
cardboard castle of
deliveries every day—
books & eggs, bread & news
of the dead. So many
summer & winter days in
April now. The first day
we stayed home was a
Friday the 13th, but I don’t
put much weight in that.
Snow left early, returned for a
blink, and left again. February
was March, March was April, and
April was nothing this year.
Our black dog & I walked
until we found puddles
in the dirt road & then
a river. We walked until
the hill rose to the road
again. The tree still throbbed
anticipating leaves when
the numbers topped
Vietnam—how else
can America measure than
in units of wars?
I walked the dog down
the middle of Grand River Avenue.
Down the middle, and Venus was the
only traffic light that mattered.
The numbers flashed on screens
meaning everything & ignored.
Like always, White boys wore
guns like jewelry. Like always now,
anyway. Like always these days,
anyway. I started wearing a mask.
We all stared at screens but looked
through the numbers.
Seattle, Queens, Detroit.
50,000. 70,000. 90,000.
Take a screenshot
while it’s still five digits.
Someone said that’s one 737
crashing every day
for 14 months.
Numbers.
The leaves burst forth, finally,
green, fresh, and infinite. We watched them
unfurl & fill the dissolving air.
Bird song,
Venus,
leaves,
rivers.
Bird song,
Venus,
leaves,
rivers.
Bird song
Venus
leaves
rivers
Turned & Turning
Ursa Major is all screwed up,
sideways against the undulating maple.
The maple pushes against the breeze,
pitch-black positive space:
stars, then no stars, then stars.
I look up again—still askew.
Does the Big Dipper turn soon,
to drip there, not here?
I don’t remember any
of this before.
Why does it all move
when I'm not looking?
Mitchell Nobis is a writer and K-12 teacher in Metro Detroit where he lives with his family and hosts KickstART Farmington’s reading series. His poetry has appeared in Exposition Review, Hobart, Dunes Review, and others. His manuscript was a finalist for the Wheelbarrow Books Poetry Prize. Find him at @MitchNobis or mitchnobis.com.
