Ten Poems by David Anson Lee

What the Body Keeps Quiet

The body is not a vault

but a hallway with bad lighting.

Every door I pass

knows my name.

A bruise blooms

before the story arrives.

A tremor practices

what I won’t say.

I drink water like an apology.

I sleep like someone waiting

to be forgiven.

Inside me, a small animal

paces the ribs,

counting exits.

I tell myself

this is only memory.

But memory has teeth

and remembers how to bite.

Instructions for Standing Still

Stop pretending

movement equals escape.

Plant your feet

where the floor is cold

and honest.

Let the noise

sort itself out:

sirens, regrets,

the names you never learned

to say correctly.

Stillness is not surrender.

It’s the moment

you stop running long enough

to notice what’s chasing you

wears your face.

Micro-fictions for a Shrinking World

i.

The map was wrong.

We arrived anyway.

ii.

She waved goodbye

to a version of herself

that never existed.

iii.

Every clock agreed

it was too late

to be on time.

iv.

He kept the receipt

for the future

just in case.

v.

The silence learned our names

before we did.

Elegy with the Radio On

The radio keeps talking

through the worst moments:

as if noise were care.

A love song leaks

into the room where

we practice not grieving.

Someone sings forever

while I fold a shirt

that still smells like you.

This is how loss happens:

background music,

commercial breaks,

a voice insisting

everything will be fine

after the weather.

The House That Learned Me

The house learned my habits before I did.

The floorboard by the sink memorized my steps.

The window understood my hesitation.

Even the dust knew where to settle:

on what I touched most.

When I left, nothing moved.

The house didn’t follow.

It simply waited,

certain I would return

to collect the parts of myself

I left behind.

Tanka for the Unanswered Call

Phone glowing at night:

your name flickers once, then

turns into weather.

Some distances are measured

by what never rings.

The Day Humor Failed

I tried to make a joke

out of it:

the way people do

when pain feels heavier

than truth.

The punchline collapsed.

The room stayed quiet.

That’s when I learned:

some truths refuse

to be softened.

They want to be held

without laughing.

Self-Portrait as a Temporary Structure

I am scaffolding:

meant to be climbed,

not admired.

People lean on me

while building something else,

then thank me

for not being in the way.

One day I’ll be dismantled

piece by piece,

and no one will remember

what stood here

before the view improved.

After the Apology

After the apology,

nothing dramatic happens.

No thunder.

No instant repair.

Just two people

standing in the same room

with different ideas

of what forgiveness costs.

We agree to continue.

That’s it.

That’s the miracle.

What Survives the Fire

Not the furniture.

Not the photographs.

Not the careful plans

outlined in pencil.

What survives

is the instinct

to reach for someonei

n the dark.

What survives

is the voice saying

your name

without knowing

if anyone will answer.

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and poet whose work explores memory, identity, and the quiet intersections between body and spirit. His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including The Orchards, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Silver Birch Press, and Braided Way. He was born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and lives in Texas.