Hodgepodge 359/365 - Cartoon Physics (poetry)

Two poems by Nick Flynn:

Cartoon Physics, part 1

Children under, say, ten, shouldn't know
that the universe is ever-expanding,
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it
acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,
ships going down—earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

where they can be heroes. You can run
back into a burning house, sinking ships

have lifeboats, the trucks will come
with their ladders, if you jump

you will be saved. A child

places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,
& drives across a city of sand. She knows

the exact spot it will skid, at which point
the bridge will give, who will swim to safety
& who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn

that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff
he will not fall

until he notices his mistake.

Cartoon Physics, part 2

Years ago, alone in her room, my mother cut
    a hole in the air

& vanished into it. The report hung &
    deafened, followed closely by an over-

whelming silence, a ringing
    in the ears. Today I take a piece of chalk

& sketch a door in a wall. By the rules
    of cartoon physics only I

can open this door. I want her
    to come with me, like in a dream of being dead,

the mansion filled with cots,
    one for everyone I’ve ever known. This desire

can be a cage, a dream that spills
    into waking, until I wander this city

as a rose-strewn funeral. Once
    upon a time, let’s say, my mother stepped

inside herself & no one
    could follow. More than once

I traded on this, until it transmuted into a story,
    the transubstantiation of desire,

I’d recite it as if I’d never told anyone,
    & it felt that way,

because I’d try not to cry yet always
    would, & the listener

would always hold me. Upstairs the water
    channels off you, back

into the earth, or to the river, through pipes
    hidden deep in these walls. I told you the story

of first learning to write my own name, chalk
    scrawl across our garage door,

so that when my mother pulled it down I’d
    appear, like a movie.