EVENING WILL COME: A MONTHLY JOURNAL OF POETICS (ISSUE 11: NOVEMBER 2011)

Heather Christle          (page 2)
WORDS ARE HOLES & A POET’S A DEAD ANIMAL THAT SPEAKS


My dad the merchant mariner used to be so far at sea that to let him hear our voices we had to send him cassette tapes.

On the tapes I am always asking questions and on the tapes there is not yet a reply.

Do you like to go on the swing with me?

I am trying to understand the technology by using it wrong.

And if I am entertaining it is because of my mistakes.

I am sitting at a table with a big party of people who aren’t there.

But I do love them and want to feed them and to move with them in forms of vigorous dance.

Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean I’m excused from my duties as host.

Just because I am a host doesn’t mean I won’t animal eat you!

Though I have tamed myself enough to carve out letters something there is (still) that does not love that wall.

Scraping letters onto a rock with a smaller rock my mother taught me to write my last name.



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